


make it gold

by adreamaloud, daneorange (adreamaloud)



Series: make it gold verse [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-04 18:47:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4148844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adreamaloud/pseuds/adreamaloud, https://archiveofourown.org/users/adreamaloud/pseuds/daneorange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lexa Vine, patron of the arts; will not fall in love with you AU. also known as that marrying rich/pretty woman AU that ran away from me. With profuse apologies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. kiss like thieves

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from ohbijou. This began as a request for a marrying rich AU, then a Pretty Woman AU. However, true to form, it ran away from me, outline all but thrown away. No matter. I do enjoy just following these two around in my head, waiting for the sort of trouble they wanted to tangle with, and since it looks like it is not wrapping itself up anytime soon, I might as well post the first few words. 
> 
> My many thanks to thesummerofrain, a-wild-clone-clubber and A, for sharing their thoughts and holding my hand, etc. 
> 
> The original prompt (which I totally do no justice) is here: http://ava-rosier.tumblr.com/post/120085184212/someone-needs-to-write-a-clexa-marrying-rich-fic

 

_the nights are bare, we kiss like thieves –make it gold, ohbijou_

 

Lexa’s flight is delayed for another hour, and Anya tries to appease her by handing her another drink. They’re sitting in the middle of a private lounge, playing a lazy game of poker, a full bar at their disposal. “Thank god for first class perks, eh?” she says lightly, handing Lexa her glass.

“Still doesn’t get the plane off the ground,” says Lexa coolly, swirling her drink in her hand. “Still doesn’t get me to the convention venue. _On time_.”

“Not that it would start without you.”

Lexa smirks before knocking her drink back. “You know how I feel about being the cause of delay.”

“The cause of this delay is the _storm,_ not you.”

“Still.” Lexa lowers her glass on the table carefully, but the sound still echoes in the quiet room. This lounge is not too bad – dimly lit and not too cold, unlike the one in their previous airport, which had been chilly like a morgue. Lexa checks her watch again, mentally adjusting for time zones. “By the time we arrive, we’d only have an _hour_ to travel to the venue, instead of having a _six-hour_ grace period.”

“I already rearranged with the hotel and the driver,” says Anya. “You have got to chill.” Lexa glares at her, lips pressed together in a thin line, no longer bothering to mask her disgust.

“Remind me never to take this airline again.”

“It’s not the airline’s fault, it’s a _fucking storm_. Jesus, Lexa.” Anya pours her another drink before shuffling the cards. “You really need to get laid.”

Lexa laughs as she retrieves her cards from the table, shaking her head. “What I need is to get out of this lounge and onto a fucking plane.” And then: “I _really_ should get a private plane, no?”

“ _Lexa._ ”

“What? I bet Rupert Murdoch has one.”

Anya laughs. “I wasn’t trying to talk you into getting a plane; I was trying to talk you into getting a _wife._ ”

Lexa stares into her cards and pretends to rearrange them, fingertip worrying their edges. “Then you should have led with that,” she says. “Some journalist you are.”

“I _did_ lead with that – I told you _explicitly_ to get laid.”

Lexa shakes her head, laughing lightly as she lowers her hand – three jacks, two queens. “That’s just not on my agenda right now.” Anya curses under her breath – her full house had been three tens, and Lexa smirks at the reveal. “Tell you what, I’d let you win a round, and you can stop telling me about what I need to do?”

“I’m just saying – you’re too tightly wound,” says Anya. “Sometimes, I wonder when you’re going to snap.”

“If the plane gets delayed another hour, I might.”

Anya sighs. “Not that this hasn’t been fun, flying first class and everything every other week, but _damn,_ I’m starting to think I’m not _helping_ here.”

Lexa looks up from gathering the cards, prepping for another round. “How so?”

“I’m just saying – take a girl you could fuck on these trips next time.”

“ _Language,_ ” says Lexa, though there’s a faint smirk on her lips anyhow. “No need to be crude, Anya.”

“I’m well past even joking about this,” Anya says. “I don’t want to be here when you snap.”

Lexa looks up, the look on her face softening considerably. “I’m sorry, all right,” she says. “It’s been a torturous handful of months.”

“It all feels like I’m a wife without the benefits.”

“Not that you’d ever want the benefits,” says Lexa carelessly. “Wait. _Would you?_ ”

“Fuck you,” Anya says, laughing finally. There’s one more round in their bottle of whiskey, which Anya carefully pours. “Get a girl. You could have anyone you want.”

“Just not you?”

“Stop fucking messing with me, okay.” Anya raises her glass and Lexa mirrors her move, clinking their edges together. “Put out an ad – you own, what, eight publications and a radio station?”

Lexa squints at her over the rim of her glass. “I can see it already: Media Mogul seeks Classy Fuck Buddy.”

“Must be open to regular transatlantic travel, and occasionally cranky travel partner,” Anya adds. “I suppose there’d be someone interested to get into a Mile-High Club of sorts.”

“You missed the word _classy_ from my requirement.”

“I don’t know about you, but fucking in the air—”

“—when you’re a public figure would be a surefire way of sabotaging a reputation.”

Anya smiles into her glass before taking a sip. “Get that private plane, then.”

“Fine,” says Lexa, toying briefly with her drink. “So, you want to test your theory on my new private plane, or—”

“ _Stop_ messing with me,” Anya says, firmly but not unkindly. “Lexa. You know this.”

Lexa sighs. “I do,” she says. “Not going to happen in a million years.”

“And that’s because—come on, complete your sentences. Some _journalist_ you are.”

Lexa laughs. “Because you never make an offer twice,” she says after a while, right before downing her drink. There’s a tinge of sadness there that Lexa wishes Anya does not hear, not in the quiet of this lounge.

Anya pauses before: “You forgot the part where I’m actually with someone I do not want to cheat on,” she says. “Listen. About that.”

“I think monogamy is kind of admirable,” says Lexa, looking away. “Also: I’m relaxing my _one rule_ in the office for you and Reyes, so.”

“And are we ever thankful or what,” Anya says. “Okay—fuck. You’re not making this easy.”

“Making _what_ easy?” asks Lexa, noting how Anya bristles for a moment. “ _You’re_ getting fucking hitched, aren’t you?”

“What?” Anya blinks. “Fuck— _no_. No, we’re not—listen, I was going to say Raven and I are thinking about moving in together.”

Lexa blinks. She’s known Anya for far too long; been around for most of her relationships, and, not to mention, half in love with her for a disastrous year and a half – and nothing’s even come as far as _this_. “You’re moving in with Raven? Like, giving up your apartment to _cohabit_ with someone?”

“ _Lexa._ ” The way Anya says her name this time wipes the smirk off her face.

“If you got something to say, just fucking—”

“Raven and I are _moving._ We are quitting your empire.”

*

After a while, Lexa gets the hang of being alone – not so different really, from when Anya was around, just a shade quieter. Lexa wouldn’t call it _lonely,_ because running through these out-of-town meetings with Anya was pretty much just like running with another version of herself, though some days she does miss drinking with someone during layovers.

“Have you _at least_ hired someone?” Anya asks over the phone, many phone calls later. It catches Lexa at the airport, predictably.

“What, like a babysitter?”

“Lexa.” There’s that familiar disapproval in Anya’s tone. “If you won’t travel with security, the least you could do is travel with an assistant.”

“The next time I’m traveling, I’m doing so with a private pilot and a flight attendant, don’t worry.”

“ _Lexa._ ”

“Maybe I should go to flying school myself.”

Anya snickers and Lexa tries to block out the background noise on Anya’s end: It’s mostly Raven, moving around and calling out to Anya about something so _domestic_ it makes Lexa’s teeth ache. “Are you at least seeing someone?”

“Like a therapist?”

“It really _is_ useless talking with you.”

Lexa groans. “I am jet lagged. A little. I’m sorry,” she sighs. “And no, I am not seeing anyone. I have three meetings this week, all out of town, and I’m echoing all of it in successive meetings with the board next week,” she rubs at her temple as she reaches for her drink. “At this rate, I cannot possibly sustain a relationship with a house plant, even.”

“ _Three_ meetings? Who the fuck is in charge of your schedule?”

“Indra.”

“No offense, but I think she is trying to kill you.”

“Won’t be the first time,” says Lexa. “Besides, I’m trying to go on a vacation. I’m squeezing all of it in just so I’d have a weekend free.”

“A weekend, huh,” says Anya, amused. “Where to?”

“Somewhere. I don’t know. Maybe go for a swim.”

“You’re killing yourself with successive meetings so you could _go for a swim._ Anybody ever told you to dream big?”

Lexa laughs. “Look where _that_ got me.”

“Well, then -- point taken,” says Anya. “Listen, I have to go – I think Raven’s burning something in the kitchen.” From afar, Lexa hears Raven’s denial, which sounds totally unbelievable. “You do know you could still call us for anything, right?”

“I do need your advice about that new printing press we’re acquiring—”

“No shop talk, Lex.”

Lexa laughs, albeit the sound that makes it out of her throat barely sounds like it. “Yeah. Sorry.” And then, “My flight’s boarding. I think you should take a fire extinguisher with you into the kitchen, just in case.”

“Already have one in my hand, thank you.”

*

Anya meets Lexa on one of her out-of-town trips – Lexa’s in town for a print consortium, whereas Anya and Raven are visiting family. Lexa comes to dinner after ditching the first night’s events, and Anya chooses this moment to ambush her, somewhat.

The moment Lexa first sees Raven walking into the restaurant with a woman on her arm, Lexa’s stomach immediately plummets. _Shit, is this what I think this is?_ Anya slides into the seat across Lexa smoothly, an innocent smile on her lips. Lexa kicks her shin under the table. “The _fuck_ is this?” she mutters under her breath.

“Relax,” Anya says, opening the menu. “We didn’t want you to feel like you’re third-wheeling on us.”

“And _this_ is your solution?”

“And when have _my_ solutions ever been unsatisfactory, Lexa?”

Lexa kicks at her shin again just as Raven arrives, greeting Lexa with an enthusiastic hello and Anya with a kiss on the cheek.

“Hello, Raven,” Lexa deadpans. “Long time.”

“Hello stranger,” Raven drawls, before turning to her friend. “My friend Clarke is joining us tonight. Hope you don’t mind.”

Lexa blinks before getting to her feet, standing abruptly and reaching for Clarke’s hand. “Hello, Clarke.”

Clarke smiles, taking Lexa’s hand in hers and shaking it once. “Lexa, isn’t it?” she says. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

There’s an easy air about her that Lexa finds somewhat refreshing. _Well, there are worse ways this night could go._ “People tell stories about me,” she just says, as Clarke slides into the seat beside hers, laughing lightly. “And I wouldn’t trust the stories these two have probably come up with.”

“Well,” says Clarke, spreading her napkin on her lap. Lexa follows her movement and realizes only then how criminally short Clarke’s dress is, in that split-second that her movement allows for it. “They told me you were single and looking, and _really_ ,” Clarke pauses at that, and Lexa takes it as her cue to look back up to meet her eye, only mildly embarrassed to have been caught looking. Clarke’s leaning in now, squinting at Lexa curiously. “How is that _possible_?”

Anya lets out a low whistle. “She doesn’t do warm-ups, does she, Raven?”

“Nope,” says Raven. “Clarke goes from zero to one-twenty all the fucking time.”

*

Clarke was Raven’s roommate from uni; that’s always a good place to start. “How did Raven ever end up with you guys? We were only ever just drunk.”

“Truth: My life started getting together when I got away from you,” says Raven.

Clarke feigns offense, hand dramatically on her chest. “News flash: So did mine.”

Raven laughs as she raises her glass in a toast. “To getting our shit together. Eventually.”

Anya smirks at Lexa before raising her glass in kind. “Amen,” says Anya, and Lexa rolls her eyes before following suit, muttering _Amen_ under her breath as well. “So what do you do now, Clarke?”

“Depends on the time of day.” And then, turning to Lexa with a slight look of panic on her face: “That did _not_ sound right.”

 “I wasn’t saying anything,” says Lexa, smiling into her drink. “Do continue.”

“Jill of all trades in the morning, art maven at night,” Raven explains. “Clarke’s got an exhibit downtown.”

“Not entirely mine,” Clarke chimes in. “Just… a _few_ stuff.”

Raven pulls out her phone, shaking her head. “No – just, _no,_ Clarke,” she says, before sliding her phone across to Lexa. “You have to see—”

“Lincoln will _kill_ you if he finds out you took photos,” Clarke says, attempting to reach for Raven’s phone, only to get her hand swatted away by Raven.

“For _personal_ consumption,” says Raven. And then, to Lexa: “She’s shy.”

“Really,” Lexa says, nodding anyhow, leaning in to look at the photos in Raven’s phone. She assumes she’s looking at Clarke’s paintings – _murals,_ actually, by the looks of it. “These are _huge._ ”

“Clarke’s into painting walls and floors,” says Raven. “You should have seen our apartment.”

“ _Raven._ ”

Lexa zooms in – the photo looks like a wall full of stars. “Honestly, this looks amazing,” she says, chancing a glance at Clarke, who looks away with a light blush upon her neck. “When do we get to see it?”

“Heard it runs through the weekend,” Anya says. “How long are you staying for?”

Lexa looks at her watch, mostly habit. “Not too long. You know me.”

“We should go after dinner,” says Raven. “It’s open until midnight – right, Clarke?”

Clarke reaches for her drink. “ _Raven._ ”

“What do you think, Lexa?”

Lexa looks at Anya, before shifting her eyes back to Clarke. “If it’s all right? Don’t want to impose.”

Clarke takes a moment before smiling back. “Christ,” she says, rubbing at her face. “Let me just call Lincoln.”

*

The gallery is on the second floor of a bar in the middle of a busy strip, and the area is still bustling with people when they arrive, sometime close to midnight. Lincoln greets them on top of the narrow stairs that lead to the display area, and he laughs as he gathers Clarke and Raven in a one-armed hug, while his other hand stretches to give Anya a high five.

“And you must be Lexa,” he says as he turns to her with a wide smile. Lexa straightens her spine, meeting his gaze and shaking his hand. “Glad you could make it tonight.”

Lexa nods, and Lincoln disappears back into a small door, Raven and Anya trailing him immediately and leaving Clarke behind to usher Lexa in. “This way,” she says, loosely holding onto Lexa’s elbow as she steers her through the crowd near the entrance, Anya and Raven all but gone.

 _This was the plan all along,_ Lexa thinks, but then again, it doesn’t seem too bad. The floor vibrates with the music from downstairs, and Lexa feels the beat, ticklish right under her boot. Beside her, Clarke occasionally points at a piece that Lincoln or some other friend did, speaking briefly about the process and concept, her voice an all-too pleasant low drawl. Around them, people are talking animatedly, beers in hand; the air is warm with movement and chatter.

Admittedly, it’s the first time in so long that Lexa feels _this_ – relaxed and curiously energized.

They weave through the displays carefully– Lexa takes special interest in the metal sculptures, and Clarke points out that they’re all Lincoln’s. Lexa makes mental note to ask Lincoln later if any of it is for sale – she could imagine one or two fitting perfectly in her office back home.

When they get to Clarke’s mural at the end of a long hallway, a hush falls upon them. The floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall piece is bigger than Lexa expected, and she finds herself having to take a step back to be able to appreciate it fully.

“So,” says Clarke, standing right beside her, just close enough for their shoulders to touch. “What do you think?”

Lexa runs her eyes from corner to corner, arms crossed. Stars from end to end, and frankly, she loves what she’s seeing. “How much for it?”

Clarke coughs at Lexa’s question. “Excuse me?”

“Sorry, it’s not for sale?”

“No, I mean—it _is_ for sale, I just didn’t—were you asking the question I _thought_ you were asking, or…?”

“I was asking for your price, yes,” says Lexa.

Clarke opens her mouth, like she’s trying to get the numbers right in her head. “Christ, sorry, let me—” She moves to turn away, perhaps to get Lincoln to speak for her; Lexa’s hand shoots out, holding onto Clarke’s arm.

“Let’s talk money later. Take me to the others,” says Lexa. “You said there’s more.”

Clarke is quieter this time, only turning to Lexa when prompted about an interesting piece here and there; Lexa doesn’t mind, not really. Around them, the crowd eventually thins, and underneath, the music evens out to a dull thrum and that occasional rumble. Soon, Lexa realizes they’re the only ones left walking through the exhibit’s alleys.

“This is the last one,” says Clarke softly, turning to the last piece – a sketch of a man’s face, done in pencil, hung at a corner by the window. For a moment, Lexa hangs back and thinks about how familiar this man feels – only to realize that he has Clarke’s eyes.  

“Your father,” says Lexa, after a while. Not a question, but a statement. Clarke nods, though she does not say anything. “How much for that?”

Clarke clears her throat before speaking. “The murals—I have to check with Lincoln. This one, though – it’s not for sale.”

Lexa nods, looking out the window and onto the street below, watching curiously as people drunkenly amble out of the bar, arms draped around each other’s shoulders. “I see,” she says, looking up as the lights start dimming. “Closing time already?”

“Just the second floor,” Clarke explains. “The bar closes around 3 a.m.” And then: “We better find Raven and Anya.”

“I doubt they’re even still around,” says Lexa, looking around. She spies Lincoln smoking on the top of the stairs, just beyond the door, talking to someone on the phone.

“Maybe they’re at the bar,” says Clarke. “Wanna get a drink?”

Lexa glances at her watch – almost 2 a.m. “I have an 8 a.m.,” she says, but Clarke is grinning at her like she _knows_ Lexa’s going to cave anyhow. Lexa rolls her eyes, trying to tame her smirk. “Fine. _One_ drink.”

Clarke plants a careless kiss on Lincoln’s cheek as they pass by him on the way down the stairs, and Lexa is surprised when Clarke goes right behind the bar, greeting the bartender on duty with familiar ease.

“What can I get you?” Clarke asks, as Lexa perches on a stool, tugging at her tie. The bar is situated far from the speakers, so the noise isn’t as unbearable as it must be on the dance floor, but still Lexa must lean in if she is to be heard.

“Whatever you’re having,” she says into Clarke’s ear. “Or anything with whiskey.”

“Whiskey it is,” Clarke says, turning around for a moment to get the bottle and two glasses. The music starts revving up again, and the crowd comes to life slowly, roaring appreciatively under the strobing lights. Lexa blinks. _This body has seen better days,_ she just thinks. She keeps tugging at her tie, but not enough to undo it.

“You all right?” Clarke asks as she pushes Lexa’s glass toward her.

Lexa smiles as she lifts her drink to her lips, taking the first sip. “Been a while since I was anywhere this rowdy,” she just says. “My events are usually… _quieter._ ”

“It’s quieter out back—wanna take a look?”

Lexa shrugs. _Might as well._ She ducks under the table, joining Clarke behind the bar, and Clarke grabs Lexa’s hand as they make their way into the backroom, going past the illuminated Fire Exit sign at the end of the long, dark corridor.

They end up on the second-floor fire exit – this space has a better view of the city’s lights, and Clarke sits carefully on the edge. Lexa looks at her, then at the rusty floor.

“I sit with Lincoln here often; it definitely could handle you,” says Clarke, off the hesitation and disbelief on Lexa’s face. Lexa laughs, shaking her head as she follows suit, sitting right across Clarke, the glass of whiskey still in hand.

“So.” It’s Lexa’s turn to break the silence. “You never got back to me about the price of the murals.”

“Shit,” says Clarke, rubbing at her forehead. “Fuck, sorry – Lincoln has probably already locked up. Maybe I’d just—I don’t know, can I call you sometime with it?”

“If you wanted my number, you could have just _asked._ ”

Clarke smiles. “This is going to be strange, but—when I said I’ve heard so much about you, I meant to say Raven can’t stop talking about how much of a catch you were,” she says instead. “Though she never really went into details.”

Lexa takes another careful sip from her drink, letting it soak her brain for a while. “You may have been misled,” she says. “I have well-meaning friends, but I really don’t think they know what’s best.”

“Let me guess: You’re not really looking, are you?”

Lexa shakes her head. “I’m too busy to look anywhere else _but_ the business.”

“Not a fan of work-life balance?”

“Work _is_ life. That’s my balance.”

“How’s that going for you?”

“Business is good,” Lexa shrugs. “I think it’s going quite well.”

“And you even have tonight free for drinks,” says Clarke. “You have a card?”

Lexa thinks about it briefly before reaching into her pocket. “Listen,” says Lexa, clearing her throat. “I’m interested in those murals, okay? _Call_ me.”

Clarke stares at the card before lifting her eyes toward Lexa’s again. “I still can’t believe you were serious,” she says, reaching for it with a shaky hand.

“Do I look like someone who would joke about buying a mural?”

“I thought you were being polite,” says Clarke. Lexa watches as Clarke examines the card in her hand, raising it toward the light. “ _Wait_. This is _your_ card?”

“Why would I give anybody else’s card away?”

Clarke lets out a small laugh. “God, this night has been the strangest I’ve had – and I’m not anywhere near drunk.”

“Why is it strange?”

“When is sitting in a fire exit drinking whiskey with a CEO of a media empire _not_ strange?”

“Nothing that more whiskey couldn’t fix?” Lexa lets out a little laugh, taking another sip. “Though perhaps no stranger than sitting with a nocturnal mural-maker with various daylight activities,” she says, and Clarke laughs in kind, nudging her glass against Lexa’s in a toast.

“I do whatever comes my way – the occasional editing job; the occasional teaching job. Once, I taught a small class of ten-year-olds – watercolor basics. I’m also pretty good at organizing events, I think? I mean, I’ve had no complaints.”

“Raven wasn’t joking about the _Jill of all trades_ moniker, was she?”

Clarke shakes her head. “Had I gotten my license, maybe I could still technically _cure people._ ”

“You’re a doctor?”

“ _Almost –_ I mean, finished the degree and everything, but god, I couldn’t force myself to take the boards.”

“Why?”

“No point in it, I think – it just wasn’t what I wanted to do.”

“Your parents must have been livid.”

Clarke sighs. “Don’t get me started on my mother.”

“Sorry.” Lexa clinks her glass against Clarke’s in apology. “Talk about something else then?”

“All right. Can I ask a question?” Lexa nods, and Clarke stretches before asking. “What brings you to my city?”

Lexa drains her drink, lowering her glass on the rusted floor between them. “Print consortium,” she says matter-of-factly. “We talk about trends and the price of paper. It’s horribly boring.”

“I got all night,” says Clarke, pouring another round.

Lexa counters smoothly with, “But I don’t,” though she grabs her freshly refilled glass anyway. “I thought we said _one_ drink.”

“If I said it’s on the house, would you have more?”

“Why are you trying to get me drunk?”

“Because I want to sleep with you, obviously,” Clarke says without missing a beat, and Lexa lifts the whiskey to her mouth and _drinks._ “I mean, is that even surprising?”

“You don’t even know me,” says Lexa, relishing the burn in her throat. “I could be a horrible person.”

“Thanks for the warning.” Clarke inches closer, fiddling with Lexa’s tie, still looped loosely around her neck. _I fucking walked right into this._ “Though honestly – do I need to know you before I could kiss you?”

Clarke tastes like lip gloss and whiskey – not that Lexa is at all surprised. Clarke wraps the end of Lexa’s tie around her hand and keeps _tugging,_ the pressure at the back of Lexa’s neck delicious; her other hand cupped upon the side of Lexa’s neck warmly.

 _God you need to get laid,_ she hears Anya saying somewhere in her head, and Lexa breaks the kiss to come up for air. _Media exec caught fucking local artist in fire exit._ “Clarke.”

“What?” Clarke’s eyes flutter open, the tip of her tongue running over the spot on her lower lip that Lexa barely remembers biting down upon. Her voice is hoarse, and Lexa takes a moment to swallow hard.

“Sorry, I—” _Shit._ Clarke sighs and Lexa feels her loosening her hold, slowly. The air rushes back into her lungs, and Clarke moves to stand carefully, taking Lexa’s hand and the whiskey.

“We should probably—yeah.”

Lexa nods. “I should—I should probably get you home.”

Clarke laughs at that, touching her lips gingerly with a knuckle. “I _am_ home.”

A pause as Lexa’s confusion takes over. “You _live_ here?”

“This bar is mine,” Clarke just says.

*

Clarke actually owns the bar with Raven and two others, whereas she co-owns the gallery upstairs with Lincoln. “It used to be my father’s shop – it’s a lot to keep up with, but I didn’t want to let it go after he died,” she says, leading Lexa right past the stage and into a narrow hallway that eventually leads to her room. Lexa wonders aloud if Clarke ever wishes for quiet nights.

“You get used to it,” Clarke says, switching the lights on. The room is smaller than what Lexa is used to, but it is tidy and warm. She notes how the sound is muffled by the shut door, and Lexa thinks it isn’t so bad. “Besides, the bar closes early on Sundays, and is closed for the entire Monday.”

“Good to know,” says Lexa, watching Clarke get comfortable on the couch. Lexa keeps standing by the door, unsure of what is expected of her. _Now what?_ “Your place is nice,” she offers, and Clarke gestures to one of the seats. Lexa glances at her watch: Almost three. _I have no business being here._

“Thanks,” says Clarke. And then: “I’d offer you something to drink, but I’m afraid all I have back here is water.”

Lexa shakes her head, smiling tiredly. “I’m fine. I have to go anyway.”

“So soon?”

“I have to be back in the conference venue in _five_ hours.”

“Whiskey in your system, no less.”

Lexa starts feeling herself get a bit drowsy. _It’s the room,_ she thinks. _It’s too warm._ She undoes a button on her shirt as she slips her phone out of her pocket and makes a call. “Could I stay here until my driver arrives?” she asks Clarke as she hangs up.

“Your _driver,_ ” Clarke teases.

“Would you prefer that _I_ drive?”

“I prefer that you _stay,_ ” says Clarke, walking toward Lexa, now backed against the wall. “Are you changing your mind?”

Lexa takes a deep breath, scanning Clarke’s face, gaze flitting helplessly between Clarke’s eyes and her lips. “You really don’t know the first thing about me, do you?”

Clarke opens her mouth as if to say something, but no sound comes out. Lexa waits, breath held as Clarke stays pressed against her. _You’re standing so close._ Lexa almost says it out loud when they are jolted by a ringing phone. _Small mercies._ She shuffles to get it, and Clarke pushes off her, laughing lightly.

“My driver’s here,” says Lexa, after getting off the phone.

“When do I see you again?”

Lexa raises her brow. She’s admittedly _rusty_ at this, but right here Clarke is showing no such signs _._ “Listen, tonight was fun, but I don’t really do this.”

Clarke blinks at her innocently. “Do what, exactly?” Off the small laugh that escapes Lexa’s lips, she adds: “I’ll call you tomorrow – with the price of the mural, I meant.”

 _Ah, well. In that case._ “Call at lunch. I might not be available during conference hours.”

*

Lexa wraps up her talk sometime close to lunch, migraine notwithstanding. _Migraine,_ of course, being a completely misleading term for the throbbing in her head that is most _definitely_ a hangover.

 _Shit._ Lexa feels her phone vibrating in her pocket, so she excuses herself from a post-talk interview in the sidelines to take it.

“Hello?”

“Hey. It’s me.” For a moment, Lexa is confused, until she realizes: _Of course. Clarke._ “Sorry, is this a bad time?”

Lexa immediately answers, “Yes.” And then, off the brief stunned silence on the other end: “Sorry. I just—I have a migraine.”

“Sorry, I was just calling about the mural.”

“Send the price list via—”

“I did,” Clarke interrupts. “Which is why I called.”

“To tell me that you’ve sent it?”

“To _confirm_ whether you’ve received it.”

Despite the dull thrumming in her head, Lexa finds herself smiling. “You could have sent a text.”

“I wanted to hear your voice,” says Clarke. “Besides, it’s the only way to _also_ confirm that this number is really yours. Though I must admit -- I’m surprised I actually got to you, instead of your personal secretary.”

Lexa laughs weakly. “I don’t have a personal secretary,” she says. “I could manage on my own, thank you.”

“Well, if you ever need one,” Clarke says off-handedly. “Anyway. Let me know, all right? If you have questions with the price list.”

“I will,” Lexa says, listening to the dial tone well after Clarke has hung up. Lexa presses against the space between her brows, trying to get to the source of the _ache_ in her skull.

_If you ever need one._

_Huh,_ Lexa just thinks. _What about that._

*

The bar is empty on the eve of Lexa’s flight out of the city, and as Clarke hands her a drink, Lexa thinks she likes it better this way.

“Your bar looks better quiet,” she says, slipping the envelope out of her bag and sliding it toward Clarke, who’s standing behind the bar with her hands braced against the table. Clarke raises a brow, staring at the thing pinned under Lexa’s finger for a long moment. “For the mural.”

“Oh,” says Clarke, gingerly taking it off the table. She takes a shaky peek into it, her eyes wide. “That is _not_ the price we talked about.”

“Is it lacking?” Lexa asks, moving for the pen that’s tucked in her jacket pocket. “We could—”

“ _Lexa._ ” Clarke places a hand on hers on the table. “This is _way_ more than enough, and that’s on top of the shipping and packaging—”

“I figured the bar could use a few repairs,” says Lexa, eyeing the chipping paint on the ceiling. “I also have a proposal.”

“Whatever it is, I’m saying yes,” says Clarke, downing her drink and lowering her glass back on the table with a soft thump. “Just. Yes, Lexa.”

“You haven’t even heard my terms and requirements.”

“You bought my mural for _thrice_ my asking price. If anyone’s talking about _not_ abiding by terms here in general – you _started_ it,” Clarke notes with a smile, and Lexa laughs.  

“What if I told you that was technically an advance of sorts?” says Lexa, swirling her drink in her hand. “For a longer arrangement.”

“Okay. I’m listening.”

Lexa pauses, considering her words. “Come work for me.”

“As _what?_ ” Clarke asks, choking lightly on her drink. “I know nothing about journalism, or whatever it is you actually do.”

“You know, journalism and art are not at all too different,” says Lexa. “But that isn’t the point. I don’t expect you to do any of that.”

“And what _do_ you expect me to do?”

Lexa shrugs, draining her glass. “Join me on meetings and conferences. It’s a bore, but I’ll _pay_ you to be bored with me.”

“And the catch?”

“What do you mean, _the catch?_ ”

Clarke shakes her head, taking Lexa’s glass and moving for the bottle. She pauses before pouring – like she’s waiting for Lexa’s signal. Lexa just nods – she’d have an entire flight to sleep it off. “I mean – where’s the hard part?”

“Did you not _catch_ the part where I said it’s all frightfully boring?”

“You underestimate my ability to find endless ways to amuse myself,” Clarke says.

Lexa grins into her drink. “And, well. If constant travel stresses you out, there’s also that.”

“I’d get paid to keep packing and moving? Are you even fucking kidding me right now?”

“You already said yes, Clarke,” Lexa reminds her. “Technically, the only question is: Are you ready to go?”

Clarke blinks. “When are we flying out?”

“Tomorrow morning,” Lexa says, looking at her watch. “I was thinking of inviting you back to the hotel, so we could head to the airport together.”

Clarke is quiet for a moment, then she pours herself another shot, tossing it back in one swift move. “Wow,” she just says after. “You sure know what to tell a girl.”

Lexa smiles. “Sorry to have to rush you,” she says. “But we have to get moving.”

Clarke nods, wiping her hand in a dishtowel. “And I have to pack for how long?”

“Two to three weeks, maybe. Then we’ll see.”

Clarke leans in closer, grinning. “If I get fired?”

“If we can get a _break,_ Clarke,” says Lexa. “I have no intention of firing you after _less than a month_.”

“I think I like you already, boss.”

Lexa rolls her eyes. “I prefer _Commander,_ but whatever,” she says, and Clarke laughs. “Get your things, Clarke. I’ll wait.”

*

The hotel is a half-hour drive from Clarke’s bar, and Lexa tries not to stare at Clarke during the entire drive as Clarke tries to keep herself from sleeping. She wonders what has Clarke so exhausted; must have been a heavy weekend.

“We’re almost there,” she tells Clarke gently as the car rolls right by the lobby entrance. Clarke makes a move for her backpack, but Lexa moves her hand and rests it on Clarke’s knee. “Leave it. You’re tired.”

“I can manage.”

Lexa shakes her head. “I insist.” The way Lexa says it shuts Clarke up, thankfully. Lexa steps out of the car, tugging at Clarke’s hand. “Come on.”

The hotel lobby smells sweet, like freshly put flowers, and soft piano fills the small, warmly lit hall as they walk in. Lexa glances at Clarke as she falls in step right beside her, hands in her pockets.

“This is where you’ve been staying,” Clarke whispers.

“The company pays for it,” Lexa says.

“ _Your_ company, you mean.”

Lexa nods, just as the concierge meets her eyes.

“Ms Vine,” the receptionist greets as Lexa approaches. “Your keys.”

“Thank you.” And then, turning to Clarke: “This one’s yours.”

 Clarke takes a moment before the offer registers. “ _Oh_ ,” she says, eyes still wide. “Thank you.”

A bellhop assists them into the elevators, Clarke’s bag now in his hand. The ride to the topmost floor is mostly quiet, with Lexa opening Clarke’s door for her and letting the bellhop leave her bag right inside the closet. He leaves soundlessly, and just like that, Clarke and Lexa are standing alone in the corridor, right beside the door to Clarke’s room.

“When you said you were inviting me back to your hotel—”

“Clarke,” Lexa interrupts. “I hired you as an associate, _not_ as an escort.”

“Someone to drink with, but not someone to fuck?”

 _I was trying to talk you into getting a wife._ Anya’s in her head again, so Lexa looks away. “A companion, yes,” she says, gathering herself. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea of what I am trying to accomplish here.”

Clarke looks at her curiously, like she’s weighing her words in her head before spitting them out. Lexa wonders why she isn’t more suspicious, at the very least; why she isn’t the least bit afraid. _Don’t I scare you?_ Lexa wants to ask. Clarke just holds her gaze, steady and unperturbed.

“And what are _you_ trying accomplish here?” she wants to ask. “Just—I want to know. So I could help.”

Lexa sighs, rolling her shoulders like she is suddenly all too aware of the weight there. “When we get back, I’ll be prepping for a board meeting. I need to focus.”

“All right.” Clarke nods. “How can I help?”

Lexa shakes her head. “You should rest.”

“And you?”

“What about me?”

“Do you sleep well at night?”

Lexa stares at the access card in her hand. Her mind feels so awake; it doesn’t feel like she’s getting any sleep tonight.  “Does it show?”

“Tell me _how_ to help you.”

 _This body knows, this body knows, this body knows._ Lexa balls her hands into fists, shoves them into her pockets. “I’ll be fine, Clarke. Go to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Clarke sighs, shaking her head in surrender. “Suit yourself,” she says softly. “You’re the boss.”

Lexa manages a small smile. “And don’t you forget it.”

*

“When are you flying out?”

Lexa spits the toothpaste out of her mouth before answering Anya on speakerphone in the bathroom. “Tomorrow morning. Sorry I wasn’t able to say goodbye.”

“Not that we were any better,” Raven chimes in. _Of course, I’m also on speakerphone._ “How was Clarke?” Anya laughs loudly in the background, and Lexa does not understand the brief pang of pain that assaults her at the sound. “Lincoln says you bought one of her murals.”

“I did,” says Lexa, wiping at her mouth with the towel, shaking the feeling off. “She’s a good artist.”

“And?”

Lexa rolls her eyes. _True to form, Anya._ “And what?”

“You seemed… friendly, at the gallery,” says Raven. “We’ve been wondering if you got along.”

Lexa smiles, walking back into the room and sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the clothes she’d set aside for the flight back – a thin white shirt and jeans. _Too casual?_ she contemplates. _Since when did this matter?_

“ _Alexandra_ ,” says Anya sternly. “We asked a question.”

Lexa winces. “Do not call me that,” she says. “You sound like my mother.”

“Stop evading the question, then.”

“We got along just fine,” Lexa concedes. “She’s in the other room. She’s coming back to HQ with me.”

There’s shuffling at the other end of the line before Anya comes to her more clearly. If Lexa assumes right, she’s taken her off speakerphone, if only to hear Lexa better. “Clarke is _with_ you in the hotel right now?”

“In the other room, but yes.”

“I don’t understand.”

“She offered to be my personal assistant so I hired her,” says Lexa matter-of-factly. Anya makes a small, unintelligible sound that Lexa interprets as disapproval. “What, Anya? It looked like she needed a job.”

“We were _hooking you up,_ it wasn’t meant to be a job interview.”

“And it _wasn’t,_ ” says Lexa. “It’s just that I don’t date – I _hire._ ”

“ _Jesus Christ._ ” Anya is laughing, and in the background, Raven keeps demanding for Anya to put her back on speakers. “Lexa. I _told_ you to go get laid – I mean, seriously.”

“ _Anya.”_

“Just because it doesn’t work _that one time_ doesn’t mean it won’t work ever—”

“I really don’t need to hear this speech again, please.”

Anya all but growls. “I _will_ keep saying this until you stop being so fucking stubborn about it; Christ, how long has it been since _Costia_?”

Lexa sighs, falling into bed and closing her eyes. “No need to mention,” she says.

“ _Years,_ Lexa,” says Anya, her voice still stern but now without its steely edges. “Now tell me again: What the _fuck_ are you doing with Clarke?”

“I like her just fine, okay?” says Lexa. “She’s a good conversationalist, and a _fantastic_ artist – I think she’ll do well to travel with me; plus – someone to drink and play poker with. Sound familiar?”

“You don’t get to turn this around on me,” says Anya quietly.

 _Shit._ “I wasn’t—Anya, that wasn’t my point. She’s not—not your _replacement._ Fuck. I wasn’t looking to replace _you._ ” _I was just looking for someone. Anyone._

“I know, all right?” says Anya, both their ends all too quiet now. “Curiously, this was also your line after Costia.”

Lexa wishes she doesn’t remember, that way Anya had phrased her offer: _This could be._ Some nights, the pain still lingers like an old forgotten coat draped around her shoulders, heavy with the years. She and Anya go back a long way; she was here _first_ \-- even before Costia. At the time, Lexa thought it had not been worth the risk.

“I was young,” says Lexa. “Hell, _you_ were young.”

“And we’re not getting any younger,” Anya says. “Just—you know how I feel about this.”

“I do, which is why I’m telling you I’ve found _someone_ ,” she says, to which Anya simply scoffs lightly. “It may not be as you imagine it strictly, but it will do. For now.”

“For _now_ ,” Anya repeats, sighing herself. “Fine, do as you deem fit, but _please_ remember: Clarke is our friend, too.”

“I know.”

“If you’re going to break her heart—”

“That’s not my intention,” says Lexa. “Just—trust me on this, okay? Let’s just see where the rest of it would go.”

“For both your sakes,” Anya just says. “I sure hope you know what you’re doing.”

*

When Lexa calls Clarke in the morning, she answers after only two rings. “You’re already up?” Lexa asks, somewhat surprised.

“Didn’t want to delay my boss,” Clarke says, though her voice is still hoarse from sleep. “Can I get you breakfast? Is that something I’m supposed to do?”

Lexa smiles absently, dipping her spoon into her cup and stirring. “Not really. I’m already having coffee.”

“That’s _not_ breakfast.”

“Last I checked, I hired an _assistant,_ not a babysitter.”

“I’m just saying.”

Lexa takes a sip before replying. “We’ll get some on the plane over, don’t worry.”

“Okay then,” says Clarke. “Do you need me in your room, or—”

“I’m perfectly able to dress myself and finish my coffee, Clarke,” says Lexa, smile widening despite herself. _Well, shit._ “If you’re ready to go, we might as well.”

“Just waiting for your signal. What time’s our flight anyway?”

Lexa glances at her watch. “In a couple of hours. Meet you by the elevator in thirty?”

“All right, I’ll leave you to finish your coffee then. See you in thirty minutes.”

That Clarke is on-time pleases Lexa; at least, that’s one stressor off her list. She finishes her coffee while browsing through an old travel magazine someone left on her desk. Briefly, she allows herself to think about coastlines and foreign cities again; she wonders when they would stop reminding her of Costia.

 _Christ, how long has it been since Costia?_ Lexa blinks as she puts her shirt on and slips on her boots. She takes one last look at her reflection before heading out with her bag.

Clarke is already waiting by the elevator, tinkering with her phone, when Lexa comes out of her door. “Impressive,” Lexa murmurs as she walks closer, and Clarke smiles at her. “Are you usually so early?”

Clarke shakes her head. “It’s just the first day blues; don’t get used to it,” she teases. “Best foot forward – I’m sure you’re familiar.”

“Of course,” says Lexa, smiling back as they step into the elevator. “I hope it doesn’t happen too often – I hate competition.”

“Really.”

Lexa nods. “Mhmm. Sleep well?”

Clarke stretches and yawns. “I have to say – in all my years in this city, this is actually my first time in this hotel.”

“Seriously?”

“It’s a bit expensive for locals,” says Clarke. “And now I know why.”

“Worth it?”

“It’s like the mattress _remembers_ my body,” says Clarke in a somewhat dreamy tone. “All my kingdoms and murals for a mattress like that.”

 _Noted,_ Lexa thinks, looking up as the elevator dings and opens to the lobby. The concierge smiles as she meets Lexa’s gaze.

“Sleep well, Ms Vine?”

“Always,” says Lexa, handing over their keys. “Is there an available car?”

“Right up front. Airport?”

“Hangar, actually.”

The concierge turns to her radio to correct an earlier instruction before turning back to Lexa, handing her the envelope containing her receipts. “Your car is ready. We look forward to seeing you soon.”

“Likewise.” And then, remembering Clarke, standing right beside her, somewhat silently stunned: “Ready to go, Clarke?”

Clarke just nods, muttering: “Yeah.”

In the car, Clarke simply looks out the window, and Lexa watches the city with her, the streets slowly waking. The car cruises comfortably – Lexa’s instruction had been to not zip so carelessly by, given that they aren’t really bound by any boarding gates closing.

 _For that alone, the plane is worth it,_ she thinks, sitting back, watching the early morning silhouettes play on Clarke’s face. It’s only begun sinking in now, how she had basically asked Clarke to abandon her life here to work for her, somewhat permanently uprooted. _Had it really been as easy as it seemed?_

“This is not the way to the airport,” says Clarke suddenly, moving closer to the window.

“That’s because we’re headed to the private hangars,” Lexa says.

Clarke’s face goes blank for a bit, before she breaks into a laugh. “You have a _private_ hangar.”

“The company has one, yes.”

“Stop saying it like the company is totally divorced from you – _you_ are the company.”

Lexa laughs lightly. “It’s a bit more complicated than that,” she says. “I’ll explain one of these days.” Clarke leans back into her seat, nodding as their car enters the hangar slowly, stopping just a few meters short of the private plane parked on the runway.

“Well, _fuck_ ,” Clarke exhales as she steps out, trying to keep her hair out of her face. The wind is picking up, and Lexa is glad she didn’t choose to wear a skirt today. The attendants stand by the steps on the tarmac, waiting for Lexa’s instructions.

“Well, yeah,” says Lexa, approaching the plane and tugging Clarke along with her by the wrist. “Come on. You all right?”

Clarke squints at the plane, now silhouetted against the slowly rising sun. “It’s just – let me take a moment, okay? Kind of a lot to wrap my head around.”

“Take your time.”

“No, it’s just – I just met you. And now I’m about to board your fucking plane.”

“ _Language,_ ” says Lexa, though she’s grinning and Clarke’s wrist is still in her hand. “Really though -- last chance to back out, Clarke.”

Clarke inhales deeply before answering. “Are you kidding me? I have never been flown on a private plane before.”

“Well,” Lexa says. “There’s always a first time for everything.”

*

“Were you always this rich?” asks Clarke as soon as their flight reaches cruising altitude.

“If you’re asking about the plane, it’s actually new,” says Lexa, drinking idly from her bottle of water. “If you’re asking about the business – I was technically born into it. It’s been in my family for generations.”

“So you’ve _always_ been rich,” Clarke says. “Must have been nice.”

“It was, for the most part,” Lexa admits. “Though it has its necessary drawbacks. Nothing comes free, really. Everything has a price.”

“And what was it for you?”

Lexa considers the question, lips pursed. Outside, the plane coasts over forest-covered mountains, and Lexa takes a moment to stare at the clouds float right by her window. “My lost twenties,” says Lexa, after a while. “Never had the space to actually fuck up.”

“How old were you when you took this on?”

“Too young,” Lexa says. “I’ve lived in that office’s walls all my life though. It was the sibling I never had.”

“Not sure whether to be happy or sad about that realization.”

Lexa shrugs. “It was what it was.” And then: “I was barely twenty-two when my father died. Naturally, I was heir to the entire empire.”

“I’m sorry about your father,” Clarke offers.

“I’m sorry about yours,” Lexa says in return. “Was he an artist, like you?”

Clarke shakes her head, a fond smile on her lips. “Not strictly; he was a mechanical engineer,” says Clarke. “He made things with his hands. Guess I got the urge to create from him.”

“And what did you get from your mother?”

Clarke’s smile falters slightly. “The urge to put broken things back together.”

“Create and re-create,” Lexa just says. “What a wonderful gift.”

“Actually debatable, considering how none of the two have allowed me to buy my own private jet,” says Clarke, even managing a small laugh. “If this weren’t, like, your total destiny – what would you have wanted to do?”

“Never really got to think about it,” says Lexa, mulling the question over in her head. “Though I had this brief phase where I wanted to enter the army.”

“You, a soldier?” Clarke laughs.

“I just wanted to leave home, I guess. As expected, my mother was unhappy about that,” Lexa says. “I think she actually ran a sort of diversion, because I received a bass guitar on my birthday that year.”

“Mothers,” says Clarke, and Lexa cannot figure out whether it’s intended to be bitter or fond. _Maybe a mix of both_. “Did that ever sway you?”

“ _Sway_ me? I fucking wanted to be a rock star.”

“ _Language,_ ” Clarke mimics, and Lexa laughs, harder than initially intended.

“You’re horrible at impressions,” Lexa points out.

“I wasn’t trying,” Clarke counters. “Do you still play?”

“What?” Lexa blinks. “Oh, no. That was… that was a brief thing. I have no patience for the sort of learning it required.”

“But learning about business – _that_ was something you had patience for?”

“I was my father’s executive assistant for many years,” Lexa says. “Being with my father—I did not need patience for that.”

“Daddy’s girl, huh,” Clarke says, but her voice has turned quieter. “Welcome to the club.”

An attendant passes by with two small bottles of whiskey, and Clarke lets out a sigh.

“We’re going to be okay,” Lexa just says, opening Clarke’s bottle for her and handing it over. “We’re going to be just fine.”

*

When the plane lands, they’re already slightly tipsy, and Clarke has lost every single hand of their all-too-brief in-flight poker game that Lexa starts midway through the flight.

*

 


	2. air sharp, like evergreens

Lexa watches Clarke as she carefully disembarks, teetering on her heels for a brief moment before eventually finding her balance. Lexa tries not to laugh out loud. “Clarke,” she calls out. “Car’s this way.”

“Oh.” Clarke looks over her shoulder and walks back to Lexa with a smile. “Sorry.” Lexa gestures to the car parked at the other side of the plane and stands back as Clarke clambers into the waiting vehicle slowly.

“I think the whiskey was a bad idea. Are you feeling fine?”

“I think the heady feeling’s from being on a private plane,” says Clarke, but her giggle sounds nowhere near sober. “Where are we going?”

“Home, of course,” Lexa says. “You’re staying with me.”

“With you? Like, in your room, _with you_?”

“What?” Lexa blinks. _God, the whiskey was a horrible idea._ “You’ll have your own room, Clarke. There’s plenty for everyone.”

“Of _course,_ ” says Clarke. _It isn’t even noon yet, and already she’s slurring._ “Where do you live?”

“Not too far,” says Lexa. She looks out the window as the car turns into the street and is promptly greeted by the morning traffic. _Home sweet home,_ Lexa thinks, suddenly overtaken by exhaustion. Right then her phone rings, and Lexa glances at the screen. _Indra._

“Just landed, Indra,” she answers. “Good morning.”

“Did you fly well?” Indra asks, managing to let a little concern seep through her otherwise cold monotone. “Your earliest meeting is at 3 p.m. so no need to rush.”

“Thank you. Who’s at my 3 p.m.?”

“Marketing has a multiplatform execution to propose for a telecom company’s anniversary celebration. Two-month lead time only.”

“I hope by multiplatform they mean to include print,” says Lexa.

“I believe they do,” Indra says. “Perhaps they have learned from their last attempt.”

Lexa knits her brow at that, remembering the whole _print is dead_ pitch the then-new marketing team had put together, once. It had taken all of Lexa’s restraint and Anya’s soothing words to convince Lexa not to lay the entire team off right then and there.

“And for everyone’s sake, I hope they never forget,” Lexa says. “I’ll see you at 2? Oh, and Indra – I’ve finally hired an assistant.”

“Thank _God,_ ” Indra sighs. “I have had it up to _here_ with having to call you regularly.”

Lexa smiles. Indra is, in many ways, a mother figure for her and Anya, though she does have little patience for the small details that looking after other people actually entailed. “See you then,” Lexa says, hanging up.

When she turns to Clarke, she finds her sleeping with her head resting against the window, unperturbed by the speeding cars on the other lane.

_We have time,_ Lexa just thinks, fiddling with the strap of her watch.

*

“You have a _butler,_ ” Clarke whispers to her as soon as Gustus leaves the room at Lexa’s request. They are now standing in the middle of Lexa’s living room, and Clarke has her sights at the skylights, her neck straining. “Are you secretly Batman?”

Lexa shakes her head as she seats herself on the couch. “ _Batman_. Really, Clarke?” she asks, amused. Clarke walks around like she’s studying the walls for murals she has in mind; Lexa does not dislike the thought completely, and she makes mental note to offer her walls to Clarke someday.

Clarke turns to look at her, grinning. “Tony Stark? More your style?”

“Rich and cocky, with a messiahnic complex? Are you secretly profiling me, Clarke?”

“Depends on whether you have a secret tech lab underneath this floor?” asks Clarke, tapping her shoes against the wood beneath her. “God, your place is _gorgeous._ I’m almost embarrassed to have shown you my room.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” says Lexa. “I loved your room. It felt like a home.” Lexa looks around her, sitting back and crossing her legs. “This feels like an extension of my office. Always will.”

“It feels like _you,_ ” says Clarke, sitting across Lexa, eyes still roaming. “Could use a few personal effects, here and there, but in all – it _suits_ you. I think.”

“And what do you know about what suits me?” asks Lexa, leaning in closer, elbow on knees, eyes trained on Clarke. Clarke manages to hold her gaze for a bit before looking away, and Lexa notes, with mild satisfaction, the blush that grazes Clarke’s cheeks.

“Well. For one, you like it clean, clear-cut and straightforward,” says Clarke, after a while. “Nothing decorative or flamboyant.”

“Are you saying my place is _boring_?”

“Boring is relative,” says Clarke. “Classy, I think. Quiet.”

“So you like it.”

Clarke nods, smiling absently. “I think the walls are too empty.”

“I was thinking of installing your mural over there,” says Lexa, pointing to the corridor just past Clarke’s shoulder. “I had originally thought of bringing it to my office, actually. Now I think I like it all to myself.”

“Now that’s just selfish,” says Clarke, though she looks all too pleased at Lexa’s statement. “I was just briefly fantasizing about painting your walls here myself—”

“Would you?”

Clarke pales at Lexa’s offer. “What do you mean, would I?”

“I mean, _would you?_ ”

“That wasn’t what you hired me for.”

“I’d give you a raise.”

Clarke laughs. “No, that wasn’t – it isn’t always about the money,” she says. “I was just—I didn’t want it to be a _distraction_ to my original purpose.”

“You could paint on weekends,” says Lexa. “I’d pay for the additional hours.”

“God, it’s like I actually walked into an artist’s wet dream, or something.”

“ _Clarke._ Do you accept?”

Clarke scans the empty space, her eyes bright. “I should have brought my materials.”

“List them down, I’d send someone.”

Clarke shakes her head. “That won’t be necessary.”

“It’s really not a bother—”

“It’s not a matter of inconvenience,” she says. “I usually buy my own materials, that’s all.”

Lexa nods, understanding. “Of course. Though we have to be in the office at 2 p.m. for introductions, then that marketing pitch at 3, which would end maybe around 5 or so. I promise to let you go at 6.”

“Let _me_ go? Where would _you_ be?”

“I usually stay in the office until 9, wait to read the first edition.”

“Every day?”

Lexa shrugs. “More or less. I don’t like waking up to surprises.”

“So you read tomorrow’s news tonight.”

“You make it sound like a perk.”

“It isn’t?”

“Certainly isn’t,” says Lexa, sighing. “The amount of bad news I sleep with—”

“Oh. Right.” Clarke nods, inhaling. “So. How do I get prepped for this afternoon, boss?”

“Is the whiskey out of your system already?”

Clarke smiles sheepishly, looking down at her feet. “Sorry. It is completely gone now. Slept it off in the car.”

“Good. We’re going to lunch now – do you want to get changed?”

“Where are we going?”

“Just the terrace, actually. I think Gustus is testing his new turbo grill – color me very excited.” Lexa lets the grin on her face get wider; truth be told, she’s missed Gustus’ cooking experiments. It’s been a while since he was last excited about a new kitchen gadget.

It is thankfully a cloudy day out, and the terrace is pleasantly warm. Like this, the city almost looks bearable, and Lexa pulls Clarke’s seat out for her before heading toward hers. “How’s your grill, Gustus?” she asks, and Gustus only grunts happily in response, handing Lexa a plate and a fork. “This smells good. Doesn’t it, Clarke?”

When she turns her head, Clarke is looking out the edge, taking the view in – they’re thirty floors up, after all, and Clarke is seeing all of this for the first time.

“Clarke?”

Jolted, Clarke turns her head. “Sorry,” she says. “How far—how high up are we here?”

“Thirty floors,” Gustus replies without turning around. “How do you like your meat?”

“Excuse me?”

“Medium rare for the both of us,” Lexa answers for her, chewing at Gustus’ preview offer as she approaches Clarke, still transfixed at the view. “You’re not afraid of heights?”

“No,” says Clarke. “I guess those who do have had a bad experience of falling, and I have never fallen, so.”

Lexa nods. “Good point,” she says, settling beside Clarke, their shoulders touching. “See that building right there? That’s headquarters.”

“You can see your office from your veranda?”

“And I had the gall to wonder why it always felt like an extension, huh?”

“Though really, I lived right inside my bar. Who am I to tell?” Clarke doesn’t look at her but she nudges at Lexa with her elbow. The gesture feels… _young_. Comfortable. Lexa likes it, kind of.

“I was going to go there myself, but I wanted you to realize it first,” Lexa says, smirking. Behind them, she can hear Gustus setting the plates down; that distinct sound of cutlery being arranged on a table. “I think he’s ready.”

“Do you always invite guests to dine out here with you?”

Lexa shakes her head. “Not always. Anya and Raven, maybe a few times.”

“Ms Vine likes her space,” says Gustus, and Lexa whips her head around quickly, if only to flash Gustus a look of warning. “Can I get you and Ms Griffin something to drink?”

“No alcohol,” Clarke says quickly, to which Lexa just laughs.

“Yes please – and thank you,” she just says. Gustus scans the table one last time before wiping his hands into a towel and disappearing back into the kitchen. “You may have just declined some fine wine, by the way.”

“I’m not heading into my first meeting with your people _buzzed,_ ” Clarke just says, biting into her kebab. “God, this is _amazing_.”

Lexa smiles. “Well, then. Gustus will have no difficulties loving you,” she just says, picking up her own.

*

The marketing team finishes their briefing in forty-five minutes. Clarke sits beside Lexa throughout, quietly scribbling something in her notebook. When Lexa looks over her shoulder, she finds that Clarke is sketching the entire meeting. She tries hard to hide the smile that tugs at the corner of her lips, willing herself to focus on the presentation instead.

Afterwards, when everyone has left the room, Lexa turns to Clarke and goes: “Show me your notes.”

Clarke frowns. “Was I expected to take minutes or something, because I totally—”

“I _know,_ I just want to see the finished thing,” says Lexa, smiling. “I saw you sketching midway.”

Clarke hangs her head, _actually_ blushing. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist; besides, it was either that, or I fall asleep.”

“Totally boring?”

“I wish I had it in myself to get excited, honestly.”

“A pretty good gauge of reader engagement, actually. Thanks for your input, Clarke.”

“ _What?_ No, I’m the _worst_ gauge of whatever reading engagement thing you’re thinking about. I don’t even _read_ the news.”

“And if you’re still _not_ about to after that pitch, then that pitch will be nothing but a waste of resources.” Clarke’s still shaking her head when she hands Lexa her notebook. “I wish our meeting notes all came with illustrations. This is simply far more amusing.”

“Thanks,” says Clarke. “Though I doubt they are the least bit helpful.”

“They’re fantastic,” Lexa says. “If you could submit one after every meeting, I would like that.”

Clarke narrows her eyes at Lexa, like she’s gauging if it were an actual job-related order. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. File that.”

“All right.”

“After filing, call my driver and go supply shopping. You need materials for your mural, right?”

Clarke blinks, staring at the phone that Lexa’s pressing into her hand. “You’re not coming?”

“What, you want me to come?” Lexa asks.

“Oh god, not as—I’m not imposing, it’s just that—you’re asking me to take your driver?”

“ _Our_ driver, technically, since we’re moving as a single unit from now on, but really, Clarke? You want me to come?”

“As I’ve said, if you have things to do—I can wait?”

“So you _do_ want me to come.”

“You’re the _boss,_ you call the shots, I’m confused as to why I have a say in this--”

“All right, I’ll go with you. I have a couple of hours,” Lexa says, pocketing her phone, and Clarke does a little shimmy on the way out that Lexa tries not to find too adorable.

*

Clarke takes forever shopping.

“They all look blue to me,” Lexa says, staring at the tubes in Clarke’s hands. “What am I supposed to say again?”

“You’re supposed to say which one,” says Clarke. “I’m thinking about painting skies and seas.”

Lexa shakes her head. She’s about the last person to consult about correct colors. “You can paint the whole thing various hues of _orange_ , and it will be lovely. I’m certain.”

Clarke furrows her brows. “Wait. So would you really like _everything_ in orange, or—”

“ _Clarke,”_ says Lexa. “Take one of each – it doesn’t matter. Just take all of them.”

Clarke laughs, tossing both tubes into her basket before going back to the shelf to take three more. “If this is your idea of foreplay, it’s working very well.”

Lexa bites down on her lip at that, looking around. That Clarke can slip so easily into and out of this flirty state is a mystery, but Lexa tries not to be ruffled too much about it. _It is who she is._ The store is empty, and Lexa decides to step closer to Clarke – close enough to actually press against her, if she wanted. “Foreplay?” she says against Clarke’s nape, playing along. “Is that how you talk to your boss?”

Lexa notes with satisfaction the slight shiver to Clarke’s shoulder as she steps away. “Sorry boss,” says Clarke sweetly. “Almost there.” Lexa watches as Clarke runs her fingers through the shelves slowly, picking up three more color tubes along the way and tossing them into her basket, now filled with a hodgepodge of paint and brushes and perhaps hundreds of other things that Lexa just couldn’t put a name to. _Almost there._ Clarke’s voice hits her in the chest squarely, and Lexa takes a step back.

The manager handles the purchase himself, when Clarke gets to the counter. Lexa is surprised that he even remembers her, granted that she hasn’t really dropped by the store all too often. “Will this be all, Ms Vine?”

“Yes, and thank you,” she says as she hands him his card. “My new assistant Clarke will probably be around often. I hope you could assist her when she drops by.”

“We will make sure,” he says, extending her hand toward Clarke. “See you soon, Ms Clarke.”

“Just Clarke,” she says, returning the shake. “Lovely store.”

“As are you.” And then: “If this would be all.”

“Yes, sorry to keep you.” Lexa picks up one of Clarke’s bags and heads for the car, Clarke walking quickly after her. Night has already fallen, and Lexa starts thinking about dinner.

“Sorry about that,” Clarke says. “I usually take a shorter time, but damn that store was _huge,_ okay? Hard not to be overwhelmed.”

Lexa looks amusedly at the bags and tubs of paint now sitting on the floor of the car. “Are you sure you have everything?”

“Ninety percent,” says Clarke. “Do we head back to your office, or—”

Lexa shakes her head. “No, we’re heading home. Unload these stuff and have dinner.”

“But I thought—”

“I’ll have them send the first edition home instead. God knows what time they’ll finish it this time.”

Clarke nods as she lifts one of the bags onto her lap, rummaging through it giddily. Lexa does not say anything; this Clarke is unfamiliar, but she _tugs_ at something, and Lexa thinks, _Well, maybe this isn’t an all too terrible sight_.

“You like your haul?”

“I cannot wait to try them out,” Clarke says. “This weekend, I mean. I’m not touching them until this weekend.”

“You can touch them whenever you like,” says Lexa. “They’re yours.”

“But I have _work,_ ” says Clarke. “Work then _pleasure._ ”

“So this is what you do for pleasure?” It’s out just like that, and Lexa doesn’t even catch herself at it.

Clarke doesn’t even turn her head; just picks another tube of paint from the pile and twirls it between thumb and forefinger. “You really don’t know the first thing about me, do you?”

Lexa keeps her gaze out the window. “Well, will you let me find out?”

It quiets Clarke briefly. “Of course,” she answers softly, later, as the car pulls up to their building’s entrance. “Will you let _me_?”

Lexa does not answer, as she climbs out of the car and holds the door open for Clarke instead. Clarke looks up at her, a blue acrylic tube of paint still in her hand.

“ _Will you_?”

Lexa shrugs. _What to say to something like that?_ “Something easier first,” she just says as she starts walking toward the elevators. “Start with dinner.”

*

After their meal, Lexa takes a knife to the bottle of champagne on the table, and Clarke stands in half-panic, half-confusion. “What are you doing?” she asks.

Lexa rolls her shoulders, running the blade across the glass, once. “Relax,” she says, voice smooth over the sound of chafing. She runs it one more time before going straight through, the bottle uncorked with a soft pop; the wine spilling.

“Holy shit,” says Clarke, a laugh along with her sharp exhale. “Where did you learn to do _that_?”

“My father had interesting friends,” she just says, pouring some into Clarke’s glass before filling her own. “I learned from one who owned a vineyard in Tuscany.”

 “I was afraid you’d break the glass.”

“There is always a good chance of that happening,” says Lexa. “The risk is part of the charm.”

Clarke takes a sip from her glass. “How old were you?” she asks. “When you learned that trick in Tuscany?”

“Fourteen? Fifteen?” she replies, looking out the veranda. From where they are seated, they can see the brightly lit headquarters building towering over its immediate neighbors. “I think it was a couple of summers before my army obsession.”

“Your summers are distinct?” asks Clarke. “Mine were totally uninteresting that I couldn’t tell them apart.”

“Come on,” says Lexa. “There must be something.”

Clarke scratches at her chin, draining her glass and setting it back on the table. Lexa sits back and waits. “I skinned my knees once from biking,” says Clarke. “Ugly fall on a dusty trail.”

“Who were you with?”

“Just random kids from the village,” says Clarke. “Did you have a childhood best friend?”

Lexa arches her brow. “Is that question meant to make me sad?”

“Oh,” says Clarke. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“I was kidding, Clarke,” says Lexa, a small smile on her lips. “Though I did not have a childhood best friend, not really. Unless you count Gustus, but then he works for us, so maybe not.”

“Gustus has been with you since you were a _child_ ,” says Clarke. “Like Alfred. Like Jarvis.”

“Are you comparing me to Batman again, Clarke?”

Clarke laughs, shaking her head. “I think your relationship with Gustus is _cute._ ”

“I think your definition of _cute_ is dubious – have you actually _seen_ Gustus? He’s over six feet tall.”

“And he cooks mean lamb kebabs,” Clarke points out. “Also, the cute in the equation is _you_.”

“Shut up,” says Lexa, still sipping from her glass. Talking to Clarke like this feels indescribably _young_ – something different from how it felt with Anya entirely. _Something closer to Costia._ Immediately, it raises several warning flags in Lexa’s head, as expected. “More champagne?”

Clarke nudges her glass closer toward Lexa. _Another round then,_ she thinks, filling Clarke’s glass, the sizzle blending with the other night sounds. Lexa looks up – the city’s too well-lit for stars, not even if Lexa squints.

“How did you meet Anya and Raven?”

“They worked for my father,” says Lexa. “Raven didn’t tell you?”

“Bits here and there. When we get together, it’s always about the bar.”

“I understand how anyone would want to _not_ talk about the news, given the opportunity,” says Lexa. “Anya helped me get through my… _transition_ into power. Sort of. It was complicated.”

“You told me you’d explain, at some point.”

“Oh, you want to do this now?” Lexa asks, sitting back and crossing her legs. She glances at the bottle on the table. “We’re going to need something stronger.”

“You forgot to mention this was an occupational hazard,” says Clarke, smiling as she moves to stand. “I better start learning where to get your whiskey.”

Lexa laughs softly. “Top shelf, beside the refrigerator. Glasses in the second drawer. Or I could call Gustus—”

“I got this,” Clarke insists. “At some point, I will have to make myself useful.”

Lexa watches as Clarke walks back in, tilting her head just enough to keep a visual on her as Clarke heads into the kitchen. Clarke moves slowly, like she’s trying not to break anything, and Lexa finds herself walking in after her, footsteps light.

“Hey,” Lexa says softly, trying not to startle Clarke, who turns around slowly with the whiskey in her hand. “You all right?” Clarke nods, and Lexa moves for the glasses in the drawers, taking them out and bringing them to the kitchen counter.

“Just—making sure not to break anything,” Clarke smiles, pouring the first shot. “Everything just seems so fragile here. And _expensive._ ”

“Hardly,” says Lexa, taking her glass and leaning casually against the counter. “You’ll get used to it.”

Clarke pauses, looking at Lexa over the rim of her drink. Lexa doesn’t remember the last time she felt somewhat _vulnerable,_ like this: Standing in the middle of her kitchen, dressed down and drinking with someone, ready to _open._

“So,” Clarke says before sipping. “Anya and the transition. You needed help--why?”

Lexa looks into her glass before knocking it back. She will never be fond of her early days – they were another life entirely. “My father headed a 12-person board of varying stakes – businessmen with their own agenda to promote, initiatives to champion. When my father died, that left the commander-in-chief’s position vacant. It got kind of messy.”

“As expected,” says Clarke. “You were only twenty-two. And _grieving_. I can’t imagine how difficult it must have been for you.”

“Anya held the fort for, like, a year and half,” says Lexa. _What a disastrous year that was._ Lexa tries not to let memories of old feelings show. “My mother wanted to have nothing to do with it.”

“Why Anya?”

“She was my father’s deputy. Knew the business like the back of her hand. My father trusted her,” says Lexa. “And she taught me everything I know.”

“She trained you?”

“You could say I was the deputy’s deputy. Anya was a very good teacher.”

“You seem like very good friends.”

“We were partners in crime,” Lexa says, feeling the weight of the word in her belly. “I have known her all my life.”

Clarke looks at her curiously. “Why did she leave?”

It’s an innocent enough question; one that Lexa hasn’t stopped asking herself either. “She wanted a change in scenery, I suppose,” says Lexa. “This business has its way of wearing everyone down.”

“Not you, though.”

“No,” Lexa says. “I suppose I can’t let it, either. I’ll carry this around until I die, like my father.”

“Or until you could pass it on.”

“I’ll settle for _until I die_.” Lexa smiles, moving for the bottle and pouring a second round. “I have a long way to go.”

Clarke takes a moment to look into her drink before taking another tentative sip. “Does that mean I have a long way to go as well?”

“If you want,” says Lexa, shrugging. “What about your bar?”

“This job is what will sustain the bar,” Clarke says. “Your overpayment for that mural alone has it secure for _a year and a half_.”

“Glad to hear that,” says Lexa. “What gave you the idea to transform your father’s shop into a bar-slash-gallery?”

“Well,” Clarke begins, staring into her glass. “I wanted somewhere to display my works, and Raven wanted somewhere to drink. It really was a no-brainer.”

Lexa laughs. “I didn’t even know that Raven partly-owned _something_.”

“She was more a remote-investor kind of owner for the longest time.”

“And now, so are you,” Lexa points out. “Is there anyone—did you leave anyone in charge? I belatedly realized I had asked you to abruptly leave your business.”

“Won’t be the first time I left,” says Clarke. “Besides - anybody who pours _that_ much into the business is pretty much allowed to pull me out whenever and for however long.”

“Still.” Lexa tries to temper a smug smile, hiding it behind her glass, now almost empty. _Damn, we’re drinking quickly._ “Did you at least ask someone to look after it in your absence?”

“My other partner Bellamy and his sister Octavia run the place with me. It’s going to be fine,” Clarke explains. “Besides – you think this is the first time I just up and left for _travel_?”

“It isn’t?” _Who are you, Clarke Griffin?_ “There were other instances?”

“Plenty.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, _why?_ Some people don’t need a reason to leave.”

“You don’t strike me to be _some people,_ ” says Lexa. Clarke just stares at her glass, now sitting beside Lexa’s on the counter, both empty. Lexa makes a move for the whiskey, but is interrupted by her ringing phone in her pocket.

It’s Gustus. “The first edition is here,” he says. “Shall I bring it to you?”

Lexa groans, rubbing at her forehead. “Please,” she says, looking at the clock – almost ten p.m. “They’re an hour past deadline for the first edition.”

“There was a late-breaker from the President’s briefing this afternoon.”

“There’s _always_ a late-breaker from the President’s afternoon briefing,” Lexa grumbles. “Anyway. Send it up. Sorry, I did not mean to snap at you.”

“It’s quite all right, Ms Vine,” says Gustus. “It will only take a minute.”

Lexa sighs as she hangs up, prompting Clarke to ask: “Is everything all right?”

“The first edition is late,” says Lexa, moving for the whiskey, finally. “Every time we break deadlines, it’s like dominoes -- we’re late to distributors, we’re late to forwarders, and we’re late to newsstands.”

“I can imagine,” Clarke says.

“When you’re first-to-market, you increase your chances of sale by 85 percent. That’s what we’re giving up by not making deadline.”

“And why don’t we?”

“Because the President has a late-breaker at four-thirty,” Lexa says. “Every goddamn day.”

“ _Easy,_ ” Clarke says, touching Lexa’s hand, fixed around her now-filled glass. Her skin is warm over Lexa’s; comforting, even. A knock on the door interrupts them – _one moment here; the next gone._ “That must be the paper,” says Clarke, pulling her hand back.

Lexa blinks. _Oh._ She takes quick strides toward the door, and when she opens it, Gustus immediately hands her the paper before turning away with a small bow.

When Lexa turns after closing the door, Clarke is already in the middle of the living room, both their glasses in hand. “So?” Clarke says, handing Lexa hers back. “How is it?”

Lexa spreads the pages on the living room table, flipping through them carefully. The headline is a no-brainer – not particularly interesting, but not particularly controversial either. The ads on the main section are placed as expected and Lexa breathes out. _No surprises. That’s usually a good sign._

“Well?” Clarke asks again.

“The paper looks fine.”

“You flipped through it _once._ ”

“Just to check if there’s anything I have to call in to the night editor.”

“And?”

Lexa shrugs. “Do _you_ want to check it yourself?”

Clarke frowns. “Please do not make me read a newspaper at night.”

“I thought so,” says Lexa, laughing lightly. “Well, then. This officially ends my night watch.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I can now sit and drink and stare at the city undisturbed. Until I fall asleep.”

“Is that how it usually goes?”

Lexa pauses to consider Clarke’s question. “Often, yes.” She tries to recall the last time she _actually_ slept in her own bed; truth be told, she doesn’t even remember.

“That can’t be healthy.”

“It’s the only way I could sleep.”

“Ever tried lying in bed though?” Clarke asks.

Lexa shakes her head. “I’d toss and turn all night. It’s like all the worries cling to the sheets. It’s a pretty big bed to drown in.”

“Only because you’re alone in it,” says Clarke. Then, off Lexa’s arched brow: “I’m still not allowed to make jokes about sleeping with me, no?”

Lexa rolls her eyes. “Good night, Clarke,” she says, waving her hand lightly. “You can rest now. Or whatever you want to do with the rest of your night.”

Clarke’s eyes widen. “It’s only ten.”

“It’s _late_.”

“Can I—can I start on the mural?”

“At this hour?” Lexa asks, and Clarke just looks back at her like she’s asking, _Is that a problem?_ “All right. Inspiration strikes anytime, et cetera.”

Clarke grins, downing what little is left in her glass. “Thank you,” she just says, making her way to the wall.

 *

Out on the terrace, Lexa waits for stars.

When she gets to her fourth glass and they still haven’t come out, Lexa gets on her shaky knees and walks back in.

*

Clarke isn’t kidding about starting work on the mural. Lexa settles quietly at the far end of the corridor, trying not to make a sound, as she watches Clarke crouch and pace in front of her giant canvas, hands outstretched like she’s testing its actual _vastness._ Lexa feels herself smiling; nothing quite like that first look at something so utterly _untouched._

_First._ Clarke bends to take a brush off the floor, toeing the open can of paint to the space between her feet carefully. Lexa relaxes against the wall, enjoying Clarke’s slow, fluid movements. _Almost like a dance,_ she thinks. Clarke dips her brush and makes the first mark – a bright blue spot that starts right in the middle and radiates outward.

Lexa doesn’t catch the sound that escapes her lips, and Clarke looks over her shoulder, dropping the brush into the tin of paint and running her hand down her pants.

“Oh,” Clarke says. “Sorry. Did I—disturb you? Wake you? Was I noisy?”

Lexa shakes her head. “It was getting chilly, so I thought I’d get back in. Please don’t mind me.” Clarke smiles and shrugs with a small, _Okay._ Lexa scratches at her cheek. “Clarke?” she calls out again just as Clarke’s about to turn around. “You’ve got paint on your chin.”

Clarke grins right at her. “Get messy now, get clean later,” she just says. “You all right over there? Want to watch closer?”

Lexa raises her brow. “Thought you needed space?”

“Nah. Come closer. Take a seat over here.” Clarke points to the space against the side wall, a few steps from where Clarke’s standing. “You can even toss the acrylic tubes over to me.”

“Ah, I knew it,” says Lexa, smirking as she sits on the floor, right where Clarke asked her to. “This was all a ploy to get me to assist you.”

“Just lob the ultramarine tube over, will you?”

Lexa scratches at the back of her neck. “I don’t think I’ll be helpful at all,” she says, rummaging through the stash. She picks a blue one up and hands it over. Clarke squints as she reads the label.

“This is actually _azure,_ but I guess this would do.”

Lexa laughs. “I _told_ you.” She looks up at Clarke from where she’s seated on the floor, and Clarke just rolls her eyes, opening the tube in her hand and shaking her head. Lexa has never watched anyone paint before, and she has to admit this entirely new experience kind of _excites_ her. Clarke continues to move around like she’s forgotten all about Lexa; she paces from end to end, brush in hand and marker between her teeth, occasionally nudging the paint tins along the floor.

Lexa tries not to stare at the brief patch of skin that peeks through whenever Clarke stretches.

“You okay?” asks Clarke, after a while. She’s standing back now, hands on hips, as she assesses the work in progress. “What do you think?”

Lexa stands slowly, until she’s shoulder-to-shoulder with Clarke. The mural is far from done, but Clarke already has portions of sea and sky painted in. “I can’t wait to see everything,” Lexa just says.

“Art takes time.”

“Then take all the time you need.”

 Clarke leans in warmly against her before stretching and yawning. “Would it be all right to—” she says, gesturing at the materials still on the floor, old newspapers underneath shielding the wood.

“Of course,” says Lexa. “Your area. No one touches it but you.”

“Well, if you want—”

“I’m not going to trespass in your space, Clarke.”

“Do you want to?” asks Clarke, and Lexa’s eyes fall on the streaks of paint lining Clarke’s jaw. “I mean, to try. Putting things on the wall. You could, you know. I could teach you.”

“I’m well past teachable when it comes to art, I’m afraid.”

“You sell yourself short. Nobody’s ever past teachable.” Clarke picks one of the brushes off the floor and hands them to her. “Try this.”

Lexa puts her hands up, as if Clarke were handing her a live grenade. “I am not touching your piece. I’ll ruin it.”

Clarke pushes the brush into Lexa’s palm, hand wrapped gently around Lexa’s wrist. “You won’t,” she says gently – a tenderness that, Lexa assumes, Clarke reserves for her 10-year-old art students. “Come on.”

Lexa lets herself be led – it has been a while since she was last taught _anything,_ and the mere feeling of being _instructed_ is foreign, but not unpleasant. Clarke braces her other hand against the small of Lexa’s back, her other hand still around Lexa’s brush-wielding hand.

“You can start here,” says Clarke, positioning Lexa’s hand upon outlines of mountains. “Relax.”

“I _am_ relaxed.”

“Try _harder_ ,” says Clarke, and Lexa can feel her smiling against her shoulder. Lexa moves her hand a couple of inches, dragging the brush across the wall and leaving an angry red streak in its wake.

“Great,” Lexa mutters, lowering her hand and stepping back. “Now it looks like a crime scene.” Clarke laughs, pressing herself against Lexa’s back as she takes the brush from Lexa’s hand gently. “You’ll have to paint over that, won’t you?”

“Nope,” Clarke says, letting Lexa’s hand go and resting it by her hip. “It looks fine.”

“It’s an angry red streak,” Lexa points out. “It’s also out of place.”

“No, it’s not,” says Clarke, dipping the brush again and continuing Lexa’s stroke—Lexa waits until Clarke’s intention becomes clearer, and the shaky strip of red becomes a portion of a mountain. “See?”

_How the fuck._ Lexa manages a small smile. “Well, that was charming.”

“I get that a lot,” Clarke says. “Did you have a nice time?”

“I guess there are worse ways to spend the night.” Lexa turns to Clarke just as Clarke tilts her head and sticks her tongue out at her, a faded greenish smudge still on her nose. Lexa laughs, shaking her head.

“What?”

“If you’re done for the night, you better clean the paint off your face.”

“Like _you_ don’t have paint on your face?”

Lexa grimaces, rubbing at her forehead. “I _don’t_ have paint on my face,” she says. “Wait – do I?”

Clarke grins, reaching over and rubbing her thumb briefly over Lexa’s cheekbone. “Well,” says Clarke softly. “You do now.” Lexa thinks she should be jerking away; should be swatting Clarke’s hand off her. She should be _stepping back_ , at least, instead of leaning further in, closer to the warmth of Clarke’s palm.

_Well, shit._

Clarke takes a moment to stare at her handiwork before withdrawing her hand. “Well then. I should probably prepare for bed.”

Lexa nods slowly, swallowing hard as she looks away. “Good night, Clarke.”

“See you in the morning, boss,” says Clarke, turning around and leaving Lexa rooted right where she is – in the middle of the corridor, an unfinished mural behind her, tins and tubes of paint by her feet.

*

It doesn’t take too long for Clarke to settle in; some days, Lexa thinks Clarke is already more comfortable in her _own house._ Clarke starts waking ahead to work on her mural, and often Lexa walks in on her mid-stroke, her feet bare and her hair still unwashed.

“Coffee?” Lexa offers one morning, and Clarke spins around, dropping the brush she’s holding from between her teeth.

“Oh,” says Clarke. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”

Lexa shakes her head, still yawning. “Not really. You’re unusually early today?”

“I couldn’t go back to sleep; I had a thought,” says Clarke. “I had to get it down before I lose it.”

Lexa smirks into her coffee, letting the caffeine scent overwhelm her as she inhales. “The urgency is impressive,” she says, taking a sip. She is pleasantly surprised to find that the coffee tastes just right – for a change. “My coffee is good,” she says, extending her arm toward Clarke. “Want some?”

Clarke turns her head to look at Lexa, like she’s asking _Are you serious?_ Lexa just shrugs, gesturing for Clarke to come over. After a moment, Clarke relents, wiping her hands in her shirt as she walks over, carefully avoiding the brushes scattered on the floor.

“This smells _amazing,_ ” says Clarke, wrapping her hands around Lexa’s coffee-bearing ones. Lexa finds herself stilling briefly at that, holding her breath as Clarke pulls their hands toward her to take a long sip.  “God, did _you_ make this?”

“I am perfectly capable of fixing my own coffee in the morning,” says Lexa, struggling to get the words out, given the heat of Clarke’s palms around hers. “Though I admit, this one tastes better than most times.”

“I am glad I’m here to partake of this perfect cup, then,” says Clarke, grinning as she takes another sip. “Granted it doesn’t happen too often.”

Lexa rolls her eyes. “It’s yours then,” she says, taking the opportunity to pull her hands from Clarke’s grasp. “I’ll make more.”

“You sure?”

“Take it before I change my mind.”

“Taking, taking,” Clarke says, laughing as she walks back toward her painting, holding Lexa’s gaze. Lexa walks back to the kitchen in kind, trying not to break eye contact with Clarke until she has to round a corner.

_Well, fuck,_ Lexa thinks, turning the coffee maker back on. _If this isn’t a familiar thing._

*

As promised, Clarke sketches Lexa’s meetings – it becomes an attendance check of sorts, and after a while, Lexa starts looking forward to Clarke’s attachments more, instead of the _actual minutes_ themselves.

“Hey, you’re getting better at sketching Ms Edwards’ face,” she remarks once, sitting behind her desk. She peeks at Clarke’s drawings while rifling through printouts of spreadsheets – dull as fuck, though there is little Lexa can do on the matter, granted they are numbers, and Lexa has to read them anyhow.  

Clarke is sitting on the couch, notebook open on her lap. “Really?” she says, looking up. “I can’t—it’s her nose, isn’t it? I couldn’t get it _exactly_ the way I’m supposed to.”

“Nothing wrong with the nose here,” says Lexa, lifting the drawing off her desk and showing it to Clarke. “It’s like looking at her picture.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “You do know you don’t have to flatter me to get into my pants, right?”

Lexa laughs. After a while, the flirting comes easy and no longer awkward -- they’re both aware just how far they could go, and just how hard they could push, and soon, Lexa reaches a place where she doesn’t mind having Clarke closer: A light touch on the hip, a hand on the small of her back, extended hand-holding. Clarke feels… _comfortable._ Like a safe place where Lexa could rest easy, sans the usual expectations.

“And you _do_ know I’m not trying to get into your pants at all, right?” Lexa shoots back, returning her gaze to her spreadsheets, just to have something else to look at, apart from Clarke’s face.

“You don’t?” asks Clarke, tone still teasing.

“I don’t,” says Lexa, trying to keep her face blank. “But if you must insist on this fantasy of yours – by all means, you could keep it.”

“You’re _mean_ ,” says Clarke, tossing a crumpled piece of paper at Lexa. It bounces off the table and drops on Lexa’s lap.

“Are you _five_?” Lexa looks up, unable to keep her laugh in as she tosses it back to Clarke. “Cut it out, I’m trying to understand Monty’s report here.” Monty being, perhaps, the only person from Finance that Lexa could tolerate. “And I have to send feedback this afternoon – before we go to that event, did you remember to confirm our attendance?”

“The one for your dad’s posthumous award?”

“Yeah.”

“I did,” says Clarke, standing to approach Lexa’s desk and retrieving the invitation from her events pile. “It’s at 7:30. Formal wear.”

Lexa quirks her brow. “Let me see?” she asks, snatching the envelope from Clarke’s hand. “Shit. I did not want to dress up tonight.”

“Did you _not_ want to go tonight?”

“Like I had a choice,” says Lexa, sighing. “This group has been supportive of my father ever since. It would be disrespectful not to grace their event.”

Clarke leans against the corner of Lexa’s desk, tilting her head. “Come on, it would be fun,” she says, taking the invite off Lexa’s hand. “Want me to dress you up?”

“ _Clarke._ ”

“It was just a suggestion.”

Lexa leans back, crossing her legs and gathering the printouts on her lap. “What are _you_ wearing?”

“Maybe that dress from that last charity ball we were at—”

“No,” says Lexa. “That was just last week—”

“I’m not sure any of the other dresses would do.”

“What about that dark green one—”

“We didn’t buy that.”

“ _What._ ”

“We bought the navy one instead, which was what I _wore_.”

Lexa blinks. “Oh,” she says. “I thought I said to buy both.”

“ _Lexa._ ”

Lexa drops the printouts on the table and stands. “Okay, let’s go.”

“It’s not even 5,” Clarke points out, but she walks after Lexa anyway, trying to catch up with her in the corridor. “Where are we going?”

Lexa keeps walking. “We’re going back for that dress.”

*

Lexa enters the ballroom with Clarke on her arm, and is promptly greeted by a flash of light. A tall, burly man approaches her and shakes her hand, ushering her in with a boisterous laugh.

“Glad you could make it, Ms Vine.”

She tilts her head in acknowledgment, falling in step with him and trying to remember his name. “Like I would miss it for the world.”

“Your father would have been glad.”

Lexa tenses at that, and, as if picking up on it, Clarke tightens her hold around Lexa’s elbow. _I got this._ Lexa covers Clarke’s hand with her own and squeezes as she makes the necessary introduction. “This is my assistant, Clarke Griffin.”

“Nico Mather, head of the board of judges,” he tells Clarke, taking her other hand and pressing a kiss upon a knuckle. Lexa tries her best not to pull Clarke away at the sight. “Welcome, Ms Griffin.”

“Thank you.”

“If you’d excuse us,” says Lexa, and Mather nods, turning away to attend to other guests. Lexa steers Clarke toward the bar, muttering as soon as they’re out of earshot: “I hate that guy.”

“Someone your father knew?”

“My father had dubious friends.”

“Not the one in Tuscany, though.”

Lexa laughs, caught off-guard. _She remembers._ “No, not that one. Tuscany guy was cool.” A waiter walks past them with a tray of champagne flutes and Clarke takes two, handing one to Lexa. “At least the drinks are free-flowing,” says Lexa, taking a sip.

The ballroom slowly fills with people, and Lexa finds a spot near the bar to people-watch. The Mathers have been hosting this awards night for _years;_ it’s a fucking _institution,_ and Lexa remembers going to these ceremonies when she was younger, accompanying her father when her mother was unavailable (or unwilling). At the time, they had been completely magical things, the way adult events usually were to children’s eyes.

Sitting here now though, the magic all but gone, Lexa tries not to feel too old. Tonight, on the occasion of her father’s tenth year of passing, the Mathers are honoring him with a posthumous award. _A journalist first and foremostly, a businessman next,_ or so they had always said.

_Well, he lived in a different time,_ Lexa thinks, resting her elbows back on the bar. Her jacket and tie feel all too _constraining,_ but then again, the night has just begun.

“Are you all right?”

Lexa blinks, remembering the drink in her hand and the girl standing right beside her. Lexa takes a brief moment to run her eyes over Clarke’s dress – _This shade of green suits her well,_ she thinks, licking at her lips absently. They had taken all of fifteen minutes in the dress shop – Clarke prefers lingering in hardware stores and not around clothes, apparently – before finding this exact shade. Looking at it now, Lexa thinks it’s worth it.

“Lexa,” says Clarke. “You’re staring.”

_Caught._ Lexa looks away, hand adjusting her tie – a nervous habit, if she has any. “Your dress suits you,” she offers softly. “The color complements your eyes.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls.”

Lexa laughs, finishing her drink. “You’re ridiculous, Clarke.”

Laughing in kind, Clarke turns toward her, hands moving for the lapel of Lexa’s shirt, smoothing the fabric and securing her tie. Lexa holds her breath as Clarke scratches at the lint on her jacket; on the space just above the heart.

Afterwards, Clarke exhales, like she’s the one who’s been holding it in all along: “Okay, then. You ready?” Clarke runs a finger across Lexa’s coat pocket, fiddling with the hem, and Lexa tries not to shiver.

“Yeah,” says Lexa, clearing her throat and nodding her head. The stage soon dims as the emcee begins his spiel. “Show time.”

*

Her father’s posthumous award comes last, and only after an inordinate amount of tributes that Lexa tries not to feel too much for. _I will not cry,_ she tells herself, right before she stands onstage to receive the award, and yet – _and yet_ – when her turn to speak comes, her voice still breaks, in the end.

_Here was a good man._

Clarke doesn’t say anything; just sits beside her in the car on the way home, a hand on Lexa’s knee – a light, unimposing presence. Lexa is thankful; the event has drained her completely of strength and words.

In the quiet, Clarke seems to understand. She climbs out of the car first, gently taking Lexa by the arm and ushering her into the elevator, her body strangely feeling devoid of bones.

“Drink.” It’s the first thing Clarke says to her, as she helps her take her shoes off while seated on the couch. Clarke is crouching in front of her, knee to the carpet, bottle of water in one hand, Lexa’s ankle in the other. Lexa takes it without question, drinking up until the water bottle is empty.

“How do you feel?” Clarke asks softly, both hands now braced upon Lexa’s knees. “More water?”

Lexa inhales; the room is filled with _Clarke_ – citrus and vanilla and sandalwood, maybe. “ _Please_ ,” Lexa finds herself saying, though she knows it’s not about the water.

“Okay,” says Clarke, and when she starts to push against Lexa’s knee to pull herself to her feet, Lexa wraps her hands around Clarke’s wrists and tugs her toward the couch beside her. “I thought you wanted more water?” says Clarke, smiling.

Lexa swallows, shaking her head. “Stay.”

“All right.”

_Here was a good man._ Ten years on, and still it sneaks up to her, the proverbial thief in the night.“Tonight was hard,” Lexa hears herself saying – she isn’t even sure it’s loud enough for _Clarke_ to hear for herself. Lexa wonders if she’s as small as she feels.

“Tonight’s just _one_ night,” says Clarke, after a while, just as softly. “There will be others. They will be better.”

Lexa feels herself nodding. _Clarke gets this._ “Yeah,” she says, sinking into the couch, head leaning slowly against Clarke’s shoulder. “But we’re still at _tonight_.”

“We are,” Clarke says. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Lexa pauses. She hasn’t talked about her father in so long – there simply was no time, and the people who mattered did not need telling, because _they were there._ “Ten years this year,” she just finds herself saying, tugging at her tie, her fingers slipping and shaking and _god,_ she feels so disconnected from the rest of herself, and Lexa feels the familiar frustration start brewing deep in her gut.

“Let me do this,” Clarke says gently, carefully undoing the tie and sliding it from under Lexa’s collar, and then folding it and putting it away. She tugs a button loose in the process, before deciding Lexa could use another. The air gets into Lexa’s lungs more easily now and she finds herself relaxing, somewhat. “Does this make you feel better?”

“No,” Lexa says immediately. And then, seeing Clarke’s frown: “Okay. Maybe a bit.”

“A bit is good,” says Clarke, smoothing Lexa’s collar. “A bit is fine.”

_Fine. We’re going to be fine._ Lexa curls her legs underneath her on the sofa, leaning against Clarke again. “He was in his office,” she finds herself saying.

“Your father?”

“When he died,” Lexa says. “Heart attack. Right inside his office.”

“Oh, Lexa.” Clarke lifts her hand to cup Lexa’s cheek, and Lexa feels herself _shaking,_ and she couldn’t stop. _Why am I shaking? I am fine. I am fine. It’s ten years later; ten years over. I am fine._ Lexa closes her eyes and leans into the touch.

_I am fine. Ten years over._

“It doesn’t have to be over for you to be fine,” Clarke says, and Lexa is surprised to find that she has spoken in the first place. “There is no time limit.”

“I thought it gets better,” says Lexa. “That’s what they told me.”

“ _You_ get better,” says Clarke, tilting Lexa’s chin up with her thumb. “You get stronger. You get used to things.” Lexa all but stops breathing – she can’t wrap her head around the words; around Clarke’s moving lips, so _close_ at this moment.

_Fuck it._ The second time around, Lexa leans in first, catching Clarke’s lower lip between her teeth and swallowing the small whimper that comes out of Clarke’s mouth in her surprise. Lexa tastes salt; tastes champagne and the cinnamon of Clarke’s gloss. Vaguely, she feels Clarke’s hands wrapped around the back of her head, pulling her close, and Lexa lets her hand wander lower, taking hold of Clarke’s dress and hiking the hem up, just enough to let her hand slip under—

_Fuck. What the fuck._ Lexa breaks away, breathing harshly as she yanks her hand from under Clarke’s dress. _Shit._ “I’m so sorry, Clarke, I did not mean—”

“Shut up,” Clarke says, out of breath; her hands already fixed around Lexa’s neck as she pulls her back in for another kiss, rougher this time. To Lexa, it feels like the need goes both ways, and despite herself, she swings her other leg over Clarke’s lap and straddles her. Clarke keeps kissing up; keeps clawing at where Lexa’s shirt is tucked into her slacks, their hands jointly fumbling with Lexa’s belt.

“ _Shit,”_ Lexa exhales, shakily cradling Clarke’s face in her hands. Clarke looks up, her gaze steady as she finally manages to slide her hand under the waistband of Lexa’s underwear, her other hand braced at the small of Lexa’s back. Lexa feels her eyes flutter closed as Clarke goes lower, slipping in with a tender nudge of her other hand at Lexa’s hip. “ _Shit._ ”

“Let me do _this,_ ” Clarke whispers, kissing the skin of her neck, and Lexa bucks into Clarke’s hand, colors exploding behind her tightly shut eyes. “Good?”

“Yeah.” Lexa starts a tentative roll; it starts at the base of her spine, where Clarke’s other hand is gently helping her along; Lexa tightens her grip at Clarke’s shoulders, like she’s afraid she might fall.

“All right. _Slow._ ” In some dim corner of her severely short-circuited mind, Lexa feels Clarke adding another finger, and _oh,_ the stretch _burns_ but _fuck,_ if that isn’t what she needs at this moment. “Still okay?”

Lexa presses her forehead against Clarke’s; nods against it in time with the rise and fall of her hips. “Yeah.” And then: “Keep going.”

Clarke presses a kiss at the hollow of Lexa’s throat; an arm curled around her hips, gripping her tight. Above her, Lexa keeps slipping and sliding.

“I got you,” Clarke whispers against the skin, again and again. “Let me do this for you. _You’re going to be fine._ ”

*

When Lexa wakes in the morning, she is alone in bed. When she looks around, she sees her slacks thrown haphazardly over the chair in the corner, her shoes askew just below. She has no idea how they managed to get from couch to bed last night, but then here she is, naked under the sheets and Clarke is nowhere to be found.

_Where is Clarke?_ Lexa stands, wrapping the sheet around her as she couldn’t seem to find her shirt from last night. _Maybe left at the sofa. Jesus,_ she thinks, pressing at her temple. It’s already bright; probably mid-morning already, which probably explains the ghost of a migraine pulsing under her skull.

“Clarke?” she calls out softly as she walks out of the bedroom. There’s a muffled response from the other end of the corridor, and Lexa thinks, _of course, Clarke’s with her mural._ She ducks into the kitchen first, careful not to trip on the sheet as she heads to the coffeemaker, taking out two mugs.

_I can do this._ When Lexa moves, there’s that creak in her hipbones that reminds her just enough about last night; that, and this familiar ache nestled deep in her gut. She breathes out and tries to brush it off. _It doesn’t have to be so complicated,_ she thinks, pouring coffee for two.

_Doesn’t have to be so fucking frightening._

Lexa takes the mugs to the mural corridor, and soon, she realizes just where her shirt from last night has gone – Clarke’s wearing it with the sleeves rolled up, and Lexa tilts her head to stare at the paint smudges along Clarke’s bare thigh.

“Good morning,” Lexa greets, clearing her throat. Clarke turns slowly, dropping the brush into one of her water-filled glass jars on the floor.

“Morning,” says Clarke as she turns around, reaching for one of the mugs in Lexa’s hand. “You made coffee.”

“I did,” says Lexa. “You’re wearing my shirt.”

“I am, and is today Say The Obvious Day, or—”

“Shut up,” Lexa says, taking a sip to hide the grin that’s slowly spreading across her face. “You started it.”

Clarke steps closer, and Lexa tries not to stare down Clarke’s shirt – technically _hers,_ and _is that paint right in the middle of her chest?_ “You’re looking down my shirt,” says Clarke. “Not that I have complaints, just that – well. That sheet doesn’t look so bad around you, either.” Clarke moves closer, tracing Lexa’s clavicle with the side of her thumb, the touch light and ticklish.

“Well, I couldn’t find my shirt.”

“This is your _house_ – you have other clothes,” Clarke says, laughing lightly. She’s moving her hand up onto Lexa’s shoulder, massaging lightly at the knot she finds, fingers digging in.

“This sheet was already on the bed,” says Lexa. “Your coffee’s getting cold.”

Clarke just says, “Oh,” as she takes a sip, eyes closing as she makes an appreciative sound. “God. Coffee is _good._ Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Lexa looks past Clarke’s shoulder and sees the mural’s progress. “You’re almost done?”

“Mhmm.” Clarke nods, mug still against her lips, her other hand sliding lazily down Lexa’s arm. “Two to three more work days, I think.”

“Good.” Lexa finishes her coffee, leaning against the wall, trying not to think about last night. _But you’re in my shirt, and I’m wrapped in a sheet – what else is there to think about here?_

“You all right?” Clarke asks quietly, perhaps picking up on the slight shift in Lexa’s mood; Lexa doesn’t even have to look at her to know _how she’s looking at her_ right this moment – so soft, like she’s breakable. “About last night—”

“Let’s not talk about last night.”

Clarke chews on her lower lip. “How are you feeling—”

“I’m _fine_ , Clarke. It was fun. Wasn’t it?”

Clarke blinks. “Come on Lex,” she says, wrapping a hand around Lexa’s wrist. “Talk to me.”

“I really have nothing to say.”

There’s a flash of hurt that ghosts over Clarke’s face, and Lexa almost regrets what she has just said. _It is what it is._ Clarke lets Lexa’s wrist go and takes both their empty mugs in her hands, brushing against Lexa’s shoulder briefly as she pushes past her, presumably to take them back to the kitchen.

_Fuck._ Lexa fiddles with the hem of the sheet, adjusting it around her chest. In the kitchen, the water starts running; Clarke’s washing again, and Lexa wonders if that’s also what she does to clear her head.


	3. brave this storm, come out new

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick, short update. We are wrapping this one up in a few (I think). This seems to be a good place to end this update, so I decided to post it instead of waiting for the rest of the 10k to finish (heh -- coming up sooner than you think, if I may say.) 
> 
> I wish to thank everyone who have left kudos and comments, for sharing their thoughts. This has been a ride.

Clarke spends the rest of the day working on her mural. They don’t speak; Lexa thinks it’s for the best. Lexa spends the day in her study, going over Monty’s revisions – they came in via email around midnight. _Monty, you overworked idiot,_ she sighs, scrolling past the figures until they become a blur.

By the time Anya’s call comes in, Lexa has already relocated to the terrace, an all-too-early glass of wine in her hand.

“You were at the Mathers,” comes Anya’s soothing voice over the phone. “I thought you hated Nico?”

“Anya,” Lexa greets, trying to sound like she isn’t as exhausted as she is. “Yes, I was, and _yes,_ I still do,” she says, to which Anya only responds with a chuckle. “Who told you?”

“Your photo on Page One,” says Anya. “You didn’t see the first ed?”

Lexa groans. If that photo made it to Page One, then the paper must have been put to bed late – _again._ “No, the awarding ran late,” says Lexa. “Besides, I was too drained to review the paper last night.”

Anya hums agreement, before getting quiet. And then: “Everything all right?”

Lexa sighs. Even with time zones between them, Anya still manages to pick up on her subtle mood shifts. “I just miss him, is all,” Lexa admits. “They put together those tribute videos.”

“Oh,” says Anya. “What did they put in?”

“All my favorite things,” Lexa says, voice small. “Do you remember my first time at the Mathers?”

“Of course,” Anya replies, and in her head, Lexa can see her actually rolling her eyes. “You were nineteen and I had to _babysit_ you.”

Lexa laughs. “I still can’t believe I got drunk on red wine.”

“You were hitting on the waitresses. I thought it was amusing, until your father told me to rein you in.”

“Helpless, wasn’t I?”

Anya laughs in kind; the sound wraps around Lexa warmly, like an old sweater. “Your father adored you,” she says, tone growing quiet. “How are you feeling now?”

Lexa remembers the drink in her hand and downs it in one go, letting out a hiss afterwards and rubbing absently at the burn under her chest.

“ _Lexa_ ,” Anya says again. “Where are you?”

“Home,” Lexa replies. “Out on the terrace.”

“Drinking already?”

Lexa stares at the empty glass on the table. “Just wine,” she says. “I’m okay.”

“And Clarke?”

Lexa feels her stomach drop at that; her throat going dry. “She’s here,” says Lexa. “Painting.”

“ _Painting._ ”

“I have empty walls,” Lexa sighs. “She’s doing a mural on one of them.”

Anya laughs again, softer now, and though Lexa almost sees her shaking her head, she thinks this Anya – easy to laugh, lighter – is one she could use having at the moment. “You really are smitten, aren’t you? You’re actually letting her mark your house. You won’t even put _picture frames_ in your living room.”

“It’s _art,_ Anya,” Lexa tries to counter, but deep inside she knows Anya has a point. _Goddamn her for always being right about me._ “It’s not like she’s drawing her face into it or whatever.”

“Well, she might as well,” says Anya. And then: “What _is_ the score between the two of you? Friends? Dating? Benefits? Marrieds?”

“ _Anya._ ” Lexa closes her eyes for a moment before walking back into the kitchen to fix herself a new drink. _Stronger now._ “We slept together last night.”

Stunned silence at the other end; Lexa bites down on the tip of her tongue. _I should have kept my fucking mouth shut, for once._ “Are you still there?”

Anya’s response comes to her in a measured tone. “You sound… _worried_ ,” says Anya. “What happened last night, Lexa?”

_What happened last night._ Lexa braces both hands against the kitchen counter, phone pinned between ear and shoulder, as she tries to steady her breathing. “She was just—she was _there._ And I was weak.”

“Here we go again,” says Anya, but her tone is not unkind. “What have I _always_ told you about that line?”

“Clarke understands me. I’m just—I fuck everything up.”

“You know this is not true.”

“I _burn_ everything I touch, Anya. You know this.” _Including you,_ though Lexa thankfully catches the words before they slip carelessly from her lips. She remembers Costia; remembers the end.

“Clarke is not Costia. Just like _I_ was not Costia.” Off Lexa’s silence, Anya continues: “It’s been so long, Lex.”

“I am _trying._ ” Lexa feels that familiar bitter taste start pooling at the back of her throat. From where she’s standing, she can hear Clarke nudging paint tins along the floor, and she tightens her grip around the edge of the counter, if only to keep herself in place.  “God, Anya. I am trying so _hard,_ but last night was just—it was what it was, and Clarke was there and she understood—”

“And she’s _still_ there, isn’t she?”

Lexa listens closer; almost hears the _The way I’m not_ that goes unsaid.

“I think I’ll have to fire her or something,” says Lexa after a while, pressing two fingers against that spot in the middle of her brows again, trying to get to the slowly building migraine there.

“ _What?_ Be reasonable, Lexa.”

Lexa sighs, shakily opening the bottle of whiskey. _We should have just drowned last night. Why didn’t I just--_ “You _know_ how I get.”

“You are no longer that girl.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because I was _there,_ ” says Anya, and despite knowing this isn’t how Anya means to come across all along, Lexa feels it like a slap across her face anyhow. “And I made _damn_ sure.”

“Anya.”

“And _you_ have come so far. Now’s a good time to see all that.”

“Now’s a good time to keep _focused_ ,” Lexa says, knocking her drink back. “I have three board members retiring in the next few months.”

“And we handled succession for that – those units are loyal.”

“I don’t want to be careless.”

“I don’t want you to be alone.”

“Then you shouldn’t have left.” Lexa sighs – _well, I could keep swallowing only so many words._ “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.”

Anya breathes in, and for a split-second Lexa thinks she might start crying; she sucks in a quick breath herself, bites down on her tongue to keep from making a sound. “Do you still remember, after Costia – when you tried to preside over that meeting and you were drunk as fuck?”

Lexa rubs at the back of her neck. If she had a choice -- some sort of operation, perhaps, that could allow her to delete those few years from her memory entirely – she would take it, in a heartbeat. “I wish I didn’t,” she says. “But I remember you saving my ass.”

“I did,” Anya says, and she sounds almost smug; that sort of smug that Lexa wishes she still had around, and oh, there’s that space in her heart that starts twinging again, and she thinks about how all of her just keeps aching and _aching_.

“I still remember their faces, actually,” says Lexa, trying to dismiss it like it weren’t this scarring thing. “God, I wish I could summarily remove those years from my brain. You’d think by now they’d have an operation for that, or something.”

“Remembering things makes you who you are,” says Anya. “And you’re someone who _doesn’t_ forget. Even if you should.”

“I know.”

‘I’m not saying that you should forget Costia entirely – at some point, you were good together.”

“I’m not sure how that is supposed to help me at all,” says Lexa, but the tone she manages now – lighter and easy – prompts a soft laugh off Anya, at least.

“Let me finish,” she says gently. “I was going to say -- not everyone is going to be Costia. Not everyone you touch, and more importantly, not everyone who touches you.”

_Not everyone. Not Clarke._ Lexa inhales, letting the thought sink in. “Thank you,” she says. “I needed to hear that.” And then: “I really didn’t mean what I said earlier.”

“I know.”

“How are you and Raven?”

Anya lets out a breath, the way she does when she’s about to say something important, and Lexa instinctively leans against the kitchen counter for support. “Actually, I called so I could tell you ahead of everyone -- Raven and I are thinking about getting married.”

It hits Lexa in the chest hard – _just caught me by surprise, is all,_ she tells herself. _This is what Anya wanted._ “Well, then. You guys are on a roll,” she says instead. “Too early for congratulations?”

“Wait until you hear Raven talk about getting _pregnant._ ” Anya laughs more heartily at that, and Lexa finds herself laughing along, her heart feeling inexplicably light.

_This is what Anya wanted. All along._

“You’ll be a godmother, of course?” Anya asks, using a tone Lexa has never heard before—small and uncertain.

Lexa blinks. _How these winds have changed._ “You do know that ties us together, like, _permanently,_ for a generation more?” she says, tone teasing. “It would be an honor.”

“I thought I should get to you first before Raven gets to Clarke. You know?”

“Ah.”

“Have you told her about Costia?”

“What is there to say?”

“I know you,” says Anya. “You’re probably putting your walls back up as we speak.”

_Goddamn the accuracy of that,_ Lexa almost spits out. “It’s for the best.”

“For whom?”

“For me. For Clarke.”

“You sure about that?”

Lexa sighs. “Not really.” She walks out of the kitchen, if only to take a peek at Clarke’s workspace – she’s painting clouds today, and Lexa feels all too fond of this moment: Clarke turned away from her, arms outstretched, like she’s trying to wrap all of it in her embrace. There are streaks of blue – _they all look blue to me –_ on her arms, and Lexa sighs into the phone, despite herself.

“Lexa.”

“Send my love to Raven?” Lexa says, just as Clarke turns around. “I’ll call again soon.”

Lexa lowers her phone slowly as she lets herself look at Clarke. Clarke looks back softly – like she isn’t hurt; like she isn’t angry. She puts away her brush and approaches Lexa slowly, stepping over her open paint tins, her feet bare against the floor.

“Is everything okay?” Clarke says, eyeing the phone still in Lexa’s hand.

“Oh,” says Lexa. “That was Anya. She was just checking in – she saw a photo of last night’s awarding ceremony in the paper.”

“You were in the paper?” asks Clarke, sounding genuinely excited, and Lexa lets a small smile peek through. “But she was worried?”

“She knows how I get during these memorials.”

“Oh.” Clarke opens her mouth, as if to say something else, only to quickly shut it like she’s mentally policing her words carefully. “And how do you get?”

“Sad.”

“Are you still sad?”

Lexa shakes her head, shifting her gaze from floor to mural. “The sky is looking good,” she says instead. “On your painting, I meant.”

“Yeah. It’s almost done,” Clarke says, glancing at it over her shoulder briefly. “Do you—how do you like it so far?”

“It’s beautiful,” says Lexa, the word slipping off her tongue so easily _. Why fight this?_ “I’m sorry. About earlier.”

“I wasn’t in a position to push, I shouldn’t have--”

“We slept together last night,” says Lexa softly, the words sounding stranger out loud than in her head. “We’re two grown people.”

“Grown people with _pasts_ ,” Clarke says, reaching for Lexa’s hand and running her thumb over Lexa’s wrist, leaving a dirty-white blush of paint in its wake. “I don’t mind the scars, not really -- I really do like you. If this hasn’t been clear from, like, day one.”

Lexa lets the smile on her face grow wider, her neck feeling warm. “Clarke—”

“And I don’t really know where you’ve been, or what makes this so hard for you -- and I respect that, I do, I just – give me something to _work with_ here.”

“I really don’t want to burden you with it--”

“Try me,” says Clarke, hand tightening around Lexa’s wrist. “I’m stronger than I look.”

_And I am weak in places._ Lexa looks away, chewing at her lip. “I do not doubt that at all,” she says. “But maybe – a truce for tonight?”

“All right,” Clarke says, lowering Lexa’s hand slowly. “A truce. And maybe dinner?”

Lexa smiles, breathing out. “I’ll call Gustus.”

*

Gustus reprises his kebabs, and Lexa enjoys how he blushes at Clarke’s satisfied noises throughout the meal. The night is pleasantly warm; the city is lit with the weekend’s festivities, and somewhere, there is music blaring out of a bar’s speakers, perhaps two streets down. The night air is buzzing with energy and possibility, and Lexa sits back, enjoying the banter between Gustus and Clarke over the dinner table.

_Like a family,_ she thinks. _Like a home._ It’s been too long since she last saw Gustus this comfortable with someone. _Costia._ The name starts that pit again in Lexa’s gut, but it isn’t as horrible as it has always felt.

“Did you play any sports when you were younger?” Clarke’s asking. “I bet you made a great football player.”

“Wrestling, actually,” says Gustus, wiping at his mouth with a napkin.

Clarke makes a face. “God, you must have been terrifying.” Gustus makes a show of flexing both his biceps, and Clarke laughs, tossing a balled up napkin his way. “Correction: You still are.”

Lexa laughs in kind, affectionately rubbing at his shoulder. “Nah, Gustus is actually a huge puppy,” she says.

“Who cooks for you,” Gustus adds.

“Who sometimes lets me do his braids,” Lexa says.

Gustus laughs, and Lexa tugs at his braid gently. “You should consider wearing your hair in braids again, _heda,_ ” he says, tone all too fond, and Lexa’s heart tilts at the sound of the old nickname. “Your hair’s getting long, after all.”

“I am _envious_ of all this braid talk,” Clarke interjects. “You should let me see you with your hair down, Big G.”

“Big G?” says Gustus, brows knit.

Clarke knits her brow in kind. “No?”

Gustus shrugs. “Call me whatever you want, Ms Griffin,” he says, a grin slowly spreading across his face. “You should let _heda_ do your braids. She’s an expert.”

“I—” Lexa begins, smiling awkwardly as she looks down at her hands. “It’s been a while.” _Costia._ She pushes the thought out of her head, looking up and squinting at the sky.

“Don’t believe her,” Gustus says to Clarke, as he stands to clear their plates and forks. “It’s like muscle memory. And Lexa _never_ forgets – do you, _heda?_ ”

Lexa turns to him, eyes narrowed. “ _Gustus._ ”

Laughing, Gustus finishes gathering the utensils and heads into the kitchen. “Okay. Enough trouble for me tonight,” he says, bidding the two of them goodbye with a bow.

“Who knew Gustus could be such a _charmer_?” Clarke asks once he’s out of earshot. “What a guy.”

“You should see him when he’s had a few drinks,” says Lexa. “Now _that_ is _fun_ Gustus.”

“Maybe we should set another dinner.”

“Maybe,” Lexa says, grinning. And then: “Nightcap?”

Clarke nods, following Lexa into the kitchen. The night feels light, which does not usually happen _before_ Lexa’s had a drink. _Strange,_ she just thinks, taking the whiskey off the shelf. _But nice._

*

They end up side-by-side on the couch. Lexa turns the TV on, and channel surfs until they land on a relatively informative cooking show, which Lexa finds amusing.

“Really?” Clarke asks, leaning her head against Lexa’s shoulder. “This is making me hungry again.”

Lexa tosses the remote over to Clarke’s lap. “Okay, you choose,” she says, stretching one arm across the sofa’s backrest, allowing Clarke to snuggle closer. _Well, this is nice._ Clarke flips through the channels until they land on HBO and Clarke gives a little whoop at the explosions on the screen.

“Bingo,” she says. And then, off Lexa’s smirk: “ _What?_ It’s Edge of Tomorrow.”

Lexa rolls her eyes. “I think I have figured out your taste in movies.”

“Explosions and robots,” Clarke says, sliding closer. “And the occasional dinosaurs.”

“Jurassic Park?”

“Watched as a child. You?”

“Dad had it on LaserDisc.”

Clarke nudges her with an elbow. “Rich kids,” she says, teasing. “Pacific Rim?”

“Watched while on a fourteen-hour flight, once.”

“Who flies for _fourteen_ hours?”

“I did. I was in Beijing for a conference.”

“Holy _fuck._ ” Clarke slides lower, until she’s resting her head comfortably on Lexa’s lap, face tilted toward the screen. Lexa sighs, letting her fingers stray into Clarke’s hair, stroking absently.

“Was Gustus telling the truth?” Clarke asks, after a while. Lexa blinks; she had been engrossed in the film, which she had mistakenly thought to be a _Tom Cruise_ movie.

“The truth?”

“About the braids,” Clarke says. “What does _heda_ even mean?”

Lexa smiles, fingers stilling in Clarke’s hair. “It’s an old nickname. It means _commander,_ ” she says, and Clarke snickers lightly at her answer. “And yes, he’s telling the truth about the braids.”

“Why did you stop wearing them?”

Lexa lifts her brow at that, looking down at Clarke, who has rearranged herself and is now looking straight up at her, eyes wide. “Can you imagine me going to the office _in braids?_ ”

“Cute.”

“I don’t have to be cute, I have to look like a CEO.”

Clarke laughs. “Point taken,” she says, pushing herself off Lexa’s lap to sit right beside her. “Would you do me?”

“Excuse me?”

Clarke rolls her eyes before sliding to the floor, sitting with her back against the couch, right in between Lexa’s legs. “I mean, my hair,” she says, taking Lexa’s hand and tugging it toward her head. “Come on. Gustus says it’s muscle memory.”

Lexa sighs, giving her fingers a brief shake before combing through Clarke’s hair. “Fine,” she says. “I’m warning you though—”

“It’s been a long time, yada-yada – I heard the speech,” Clarke says, leaning her head back. “Just—do as you want, okay? I’m all yours.”

_All yours._ Lexa swallows hard, staring at their empty glasses on the table.

“What are you waiting for, _heda_?”

“All right, all right,” Lexa says, gathering Clarke’s hair carefully between her fingers.

_A good beginning as any_.  

*

“When was the last time you braided somebody else’s hair?”

Lexa’s breath hitches at the question, worried about her answer. “You mean, Gustus?”

“Or _anyone_ else,” says Clarke. “There was someone, wasn’t there?”

_Have you told her about Costia._ Lexa sighs. _Goddamnit, Anya. Get out of my head._ She stares at Clarke’s hair in her hand for a moment, twisting it around between her fingers, tugging gently as she goes along. _Muscle memory._ “There was,” she says carefully. “Her name was Costia.”

“Costia.” Clarke says her name like she’s trying the word out in her mouth.  “Can I keep asking?”

“Sure,” Lexa says, wrapping up one braid with a small elastic, and Clarke shifts between her legs, tilting her head as Lexa starts another. “What do you want to know?”

Clarke is quiet for a while, and Lexa keeps on braiding, fingertips light around strands of hair, careful not to pull too tightly. “How did it end?” she asks.

“In furious flames,” says Lexa matter-of-factly. “How else could it have?”

“How young were you?”

“Just younger,” she says. “I met her after I became CEO. The board didn’t like that very much.”

“Because she was a woman?”

“Because she was a distraction,” says Lexa. “That was my weakness.”

“Lexa,” Clarke says, moving to look at her over her shoulder. Lexa just lets out a small, _Ah,_ tightening her knees around Clarke’s shoulders, as if to say, _Stay still._ Clarke keeps looking forward, shoulders relaxing.“But you were _young_.”

“That was the last time I was,” says Lexa. “We burned everything we touched. _I_ burned everything I touched.”

Clarke says nothing for a long moment, and Lexa pauses braiding, wondering if Clarke feels like Lexa is burning through her scalp, right now. “And where is she now?” she asks, tone careful.

“Just gone,” says Lexa, the mess of the fallout in the handful of years after summarized in two small words. “It wasn’t meant to last. It wasn’t _built_ to last.”

“And what is?” Clarke asks, and Lexa tries to find an answer to that but fails. She doesn’t want to accept that _nothing_ is built to last – empires rise and fall, and everything ends given enough time. _Burn everything you touch._ Lexa finishes Clarke’s second braid quietly before tying its end together with a small black band.

“Do you want another?” Lexa asks instead, taking another section of Clarke’s hair between her fingers tentatively.

Clarke turns around and lifts herself to her knees, hands high on Lexa’s thighs, and Lexa instinctively finds herself scooting backward further into the couch in her surprise. Clarke looks up at her, mischief playing at the corner of her smile. “How do I look?”

_You’re asking right now, while kneeling between my legs, on the floor of my living room?_ Lexa tells herself to breathe; tells herself repeatedly. “Clarke.”

“So, is this the thing with you – when you stop answering my questions, I’m supposed to stop asking, right?”

Lexa laughs, the sudden sound hurting her chest. “Sorry.”

“I know we agreed to a truce—”

“And this isn’t exactly a truce, is it?” Lexa asks, smiling softly. Somewhere, she becomes dimly aware of Clarke’s hands inching up to her hips, and Lexa breathes in sharply. She’s face-to-face with Clarke now, noses almost close enough to touch. “Not a truce at all.”

Clarke leans in, closing the gap. Her lips are soft, and Lexa feels herself _sinking,_ like a weary body giving into the embrace of a familiar bed, long forgotten. The kiss is patient – it has none of the urgency of the last encounter; none of the desperation, just the sweetness.

_Oh, look here,_ Lexa thinks, hand coming up to cup Clarke’s neck, tugging her closer. _This could be._

_Not everyone. Not Clarke._

“We could call it whatever we want,” says Clarke, breaking the kiss herself. “Go however _slow_ we want.” She closes her eyes at the feel of Lexa tugging at her braids, her fingertips running over her ears. “I mean. You’re the boss.”

“Yeah… about that.”

“Okay I regret bringing that up – can we _please_ not talk about work stuff right now?”

Lexa smiles, moving in for another kiss. _How can hope and hopelessness feel so alike?_ “I think I’m going to have to fire you.”

“ _What._ ”

“And _then_ I’m going to, like, ask you out. Like a normal person.”

Clarke laughs. “Okay, so did you just hire me because you don’t know how to date properly?”

“In _part_ ,” says Lexa, head tilted. “Though you did offer. And I thought you could use a job.”

“And not once did you ever _consider_ that maybe I wanted to be your assistant so I could be near you _all the time_.”

“Why would _anyone_ want to be near me all the time?”

“Apart from the obvious—”

“That I’m gorgeous?” Lexa ventures.

“That you’re _rich_ ,” Clarke says, rolling her eyes, and Lexa laughs a little harder – falling into Clarke a little bit more. Clarke receives her, open-mouthed, her tongue sweet. “Okay, and you’re gorgeous. _Maybe._ ”

“I’ll take maybe,” says Lexa. “Now that you’re fired, you can skip the office meetings and focus on finishing the mural instead.”

“But whatever would you do _without_ me?”

Lexa sighs melodramatically. “I’m sure I can manage,” she says. “I’m sucking it up in the name of _art._ ”

“ _Art,_ huh?” says Clarke, climbing onto Lexa’s lap. _Oh boy,_ Lexa thinks, as Clarke’s hands settle on her shoulders. “Like a true patron.”

“Lexa Vine, patron of the arts – has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

“Mhmm,” says Clarke, dipping briefly for another kiss. And another, then another – none of them linger, but the taste of her stays, making a home inside her mouth, and _oh,_ Lexa thinks, _how about this?_

“Patron of the arts,” Clarke murmurs against her lips. “Have _mercy._ ”


	4. blow this smoke, make it gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically the last chapter, as the next one is just a short epilogue. Thank you for joining me on this journey! You have all been swell. Thank you.

 

On the night Clarke finishes the mural, she requests for vodka instead of whiskey and Lexa thinks, _I’m thirsty just the same,_ watching Clarke fuss with the bottle and lime.

“To something _new_ ,” says Clarke, clinking her glass against Lexa’s.

“To something _finished,_ ” says Lexa in kind, and Clarke drinks up, draining her glass. _“_ Hey. _Easy._ ”

Clarke nods, exhaling, her breath a long hiss. “I promised myself I would do that once this is done,” she says, wiping at her lips with the back of her hand. Lexa reaches out, rubbing at the paint smear just under Clarke’s chin. “What’s next, boss?”

Lexa looks into glass before taking a tentative sip – she’s not really the vodka kind of girl, but for this one, she might as well be. The taste, while unfamiliar, is not entirely unpleasant; the burn though, as always, is a surprise.

“You haven’t heard from Raven?” Lexa asks, after a while, finally unable to keep the question in.

Clarke nudges her with her shoulder. They’re standing side-by-side in the hallway, staring at Clarke’s newly finished piece – a view of the sun setting over the sea, drawn in such a way that Lexa feels like she’s just looking out her window. _Maybe it’s about time to buy property by the coast._

“You _know,_ ” says Clarke, and when Lexa turns to her, she sees Clarke’s eyes widen. “You _knew_ all this time!”

Lexa laughs. “Knew _what_?”

“I know that face – that’s your _I know something but I’m not telling_ face.”

“What even—I don’t have _that_ face.”

“God, of course—Anya on the phone—how could you have not said something?” Clarke buries her face in her hands, though her grin is already too wide for both hands to even cover, anyhow.

“Anya wanted Raven to be the one to tell you,” says Lexa, touching Clarke’s elbow, and Clarke leans into her, letting Lexa curl an arm around her shoulder.

“They’re getting _married_ ,” Clarke murmurs into Lexa’s chest.

“I know.”

“I have known Raven half my life – we were only ever getting drunk –”

“I’ve heard.”

“And now—she’s _getting married._ To your mentor, and just—”

Lexa rubs at Clarke’s back gently. “Yeah.”

“How did this happen?”

“How did _what_ happen?”

When Clarke pushes off Lexa, she’s wiping at her face. _Shit, is she crying?_ “I’m sorry, I just—” _She is crying, what the fuck?_ Lexa smiles as Clarke keeps wiping and sniffling. “Why aren’t _you_ crying?”

“Do youwant me to _cry?_ ” asks Lexa and Clarke lets out a laugh at that, surprised.

“You’re an ass,” says Clarke, swatting at Lexa’s shoulder. “Goes without saying you’ll be my plus-one, hm?”

Lexa smiles. “Well, I’m already invited but -- _of course_?” And then: “So long as you’ll be mine?”

Clarke swats her again, but gentler this time, running her hands down Lexa’s front with purpose. “You may be an ass,” says Clarke, fingers tracing Lexa’s collarbone outward. “But at least you’re mine.”

“You’d think they’d just choose between the two of us for Maid of Honor?” Lexa teases.

“I’m calling Raven first.”

*

They fly in a week before the wedding, via Lexa’s jet, and Anya meets them at the private hangar herself. Lexa sees her leaning against the car, arms crossed and aviators on, as soon as they disembark. Anya relaxes her stance and opens her arms and Lexa is unable to stop herself from running right into her.

“ _Christ,_ ” says Anya, just as Lexa nearly tackles her into the side of her car. “Can you _please_ be gentler on these old bones? I’m not getting any younger.”

“Hello, Anya,” says Lexa, laughing with both hands braced upon Anya’s shoulder. “It is so good to see you.”

Anya nods. “You, too.” And then, looking past Lexa’s shoulder: “Hello, Clarke.”

“Hi,” says Clarke, and Lexa feels her step closer, sliding her hand into hers. “Congratulations.”

“Raven is busy preparing at home for your arrival – a little _feast_ , if you will. She’s excited to play hostess.”

“Raven learned to _cook_?” asks Clarke, and Lexa laughs at the way the surprise plays on her face. “Seriously? She let me _subsist_ on instant noodles for our entire stay in uni—”

Anya shrugs, opening the car door. “Well, that actually remains to be seen,” she says, and Lexa nudges Clarke to get in, climbing in after her. “I hope she gets something done, because I am actually starving.” She adjusts the rear view mirror, just enough to catch Lexa’s eye on it. “You guys ready?”

“Are _you?_ ” Lexa asks back, brow lifted, tone playful.

Anya looks away from the mirror and puts her aviators back on. “God, please don’t remind me I’m supposed to be _nervous._ ”

_Well, that’s something I’ve never seen before._ Lexa laughs and Clarke tightens her hold around Lexa, their joined hands resting on her lap. “This is going to be one hell of a week,” Lexa just says.

*

The first thing Lexa notices upon entering Anya and Raven’s apartment is the row of picture frames that line the small corridor that leads to the living room. She notes with muted surprise her smiling face among them – she recognizes a photo from that night she and Clarke first met, as well as one from their company anniversary a handful of years ago. There’s a photo of Raven with Clarke and Lincoln, smiling with a handful of other friends whom Lexa hasn’t met just yet; she makes mental note to ask Clarke about them later, because she’ll probably be meeting them at the wedding.

_God, the wedding._ Lexa absently touches her chest at the word, trying to still her jolted heart. After all this time, she still can barely believe she’s actually here to attend _Anya’s_ wedding. She lets her eyes scan the walls – _the life you’ve made,_ she just thinks, noting the small souvenirs that litter the shelves – small Ferrari models that she assumes are still part of Raven’s growing collection; a set of display knives hung on one wall -- Anya’s only weakness, until now.

_This life. All this time._

“Is that you, Clarke?”

Lexa whips her head around toward the direction of that voice– it’s Raven in the kitchen, and just like that Clarke is darting through the living room and flinging herself into Raven’s arms; a half-laugh, half-sob escaping her lips.

“Here we go,” says Anya, walking over to stand beside Lexa in the middle of the living room and handing her a beer. They’re a considerable distance away from the weepy pile that Raven and Clarke are currently making by the entrance of the kitchen. “Is Clarke usually this weepy?”

Lexa smirks, taking a sip. “Is _Raven_?”

Anya laughs. “God, these past few weeks have been a _mess_ ,” she says, pausing to drink from her beer in kind. “Why do people allow themselves to undergo this _insanity_ and for what?”

“Ah, _love_ ,” Lexa says, rolling her eyes, and Anya just shoves her by the shoulder hard in response, laughing gruffly. “How can we help?”

“You’re our _guests,_ you’re supposed to just eat and drink and dress up,” says Anya. “None of this _helping_ stuff.”

“Come on,” says Lexa. “Is there anything you need—”

“ _Lexa._ ” Anya puts an arm around her shoulder, gathering her closer, tightly against her side. “ _Shut up._ I got this, okay?”

Lexa nods. “Okay, okay.”

“Okay,” Anya repeats a final time before letting Lexa go, brushing imaginary dust off her shoulders. “Oh, and by the way. You’re doing the toast at the reception.”

_Thank god,_ she almost says out loud. “Does this mean I lost to Clarke in the Maid of Honor race?” she asks, feigning a pout, and Anya lets out a little cough, choking on her beer.

“There was a _race?_ ”

“I was fucking _kidding,_ ” says Lexa, rubbing Anya’s back in apology. “But I am honored to do the toast.”

“Like there’s anyone else I’d ask,” says Anya, side-eyeing her. “I need to see a draft of that speech the night before the wedding.”

Lexa groans. “You did not just.”

“I was fucking _kidding_ ,” says Anya in kind before moving toward the kitchen. “Finish your beer and come to the table. I hope to God Raven managed something edible.”

*

Raven’s actually a pretty good cook, when it all comes down to it – the chicken is flavorful, and the pasta is quite all right. Lexa listens in as Clarke and Raven update each other – about the bar, about the gallery, about their friends; about horrible wedding suppliers and dress mishaps and taste tests from hell.

“I’m telling you Clarke,” says Raven, her fork suspended in mid-air. “I’m glad I’m marrying for love, because all this stress just won’t be worth it otherwise.” She sticks her tongue out playfully at Anya, seated beside her at the table.

“Ditto,” says Anya, smiling at Lexa, like she’s saying _Pay attention._ “How’s the food, Clarke?”

“Infuriatingly decent,” says Clarke, rolling her eyes at Raven. “This skill is clearly more than a decade late.”

“What can I say, I’m a late bloomer.”

“She is,” says Anya, nodding as she eats another forkful of pasta.

“Worth the wait, isn’t it?” asks Raven coyly.

“Always.”

“ _You guys,_ ” Lexa interjects, and just like that they’re all laughing. Clarke’s hand tugs at Lexa’s under the table, and Lexa looks away, feeling a blush come on. Anya and Raven look so… comfortable with each other. _Easy._ When Lexa turns her head to look at Clarke, she lifts Lexa’s knuckle to her lips softly. _Christ._

“God, the two of you are just as horrible,” Raven says. “You guys better get married before I get pregnant.”

“No _pressure_ ,” Anya sing-songs as she pushes herself off the dining table, bring her empty plate with her. “Okay then -- who wants dessert?”

*

Lexa and Clarke throw a double-bachelorette party in their honor. Lexa closes off the entire top floor of a hotel downtown, and sets up the party at the spacious penthouse balcony, which overlooks the city. That night, Lexa finds herself staring out at the lights, listening in to the faint sounds of Clarke and Raven finishing party preps in the kitchen.

“I said no _helping,_ ” says Anya, settling beside Lexa, elbows on the railing.

“It’s just a party,” Lexa says, smiling. “Nothing at all to do with your wedding.”

“Really?” Anya scoffs, looking around, gesturing with an arm outstretched, a grin on her face. “This is just _excessive_ , Lexa.”

“Excessive?” Lexa says, feigning surprise. “It’s not even a _real_ bachelorette party. I mean, we didn’t have time to hire _strippers_ \--”

“Remember that time I was actually your boss?” asks Anya, poker-faced, and Lexa just chuckles. “Like, a person you _actually_ respected—”

“Anya. You’re getting _married_ , _”_ Lexa interrupts, hand on Anya’s arm. It’s a moment quieter than she expects, and Anya gives her an altogether unfamiliar _soft_ look. “Let me do this for you.”

“Okay,” says Anya, after a while. “The last time, okay?”

“The last time what?”

“The last time I’ll ever let you do something for me.”

Lexa blinks. _But we’ll be here all our lives._ “I can’t promise that.”

“I’m not asking for a promise,” says Anya.

“You can’t get rid of me that easily,” Lexa adds. It’s meant as a joke, but it comes off heavier than intended, and now _Anya’s_ putting her hand on Lexa’s arm.

“I’m not divorcing my _friends_ and marrying Raven, if that’s what you’re worrying about.”

“You say that like you have a _lot_ of friends.”

Anya shoves Lexa’s shoulder with hers, laughing out loud. “Asshole.”

“Seriously, Anya. I still have your back.”

“I still have yours.”

“Let me help every once in a while.”

“Just not with any parties, maybe.” Anya smiles as she turns around and Lexa follows suit, if only to look at what Anya sees: Clarke and Raven making a mess in the kitchen, a bottle of wine already open between them. “You still have no idea how to scale down your efforts.”

“You’re getting married. There is no way we’re scaling down for this one.”

Anya rolls her eyes. “Please stay away from our future child’s first birthday party.”

“Oh, I won’t miss it for the world,” says Lexa, meeting Clarke’s eye from the kitchen. She sees Raven wave at them, beckoning them to come inside. “Your wife is calling.”

“So is yours.”

Lexa laughs, pushing herself off the railing and walking toward the kitchen, past the glass doors that separate the balcony from the rest of the penthouse. Clarke is eating broken tortilla chips from a bowl and Raven is drinking from the bottle of champagne when Lexa and Anya get to them, and Raven giggles as she tries to hold the bottle aloft and away from Anya’s grasp.

“You’re hogging the champagne,” says Anya, pinning Raven against the kitchen counter.

“You’re not even supposed to be _here_ ,” Raven says, letting out a small squeal as Anya finally succeeds in snatching the bottle off her hands.

“No?” asks Anya, head tilted. Lexa watches as she sips tentatively from the bottle and smiles; marvels at how _young_ this Anya looks. _Completely strange, completely new._  

“ _No,_ ” says Raven, palms against Anya’s chest. Anya laughs, leaning in for a careless kiss that catches only the corner of Raven’s lips. “Tell her, Clarke.”

“ _Lexa,_ ” Clarke says, tugging at Lexa’s arm and looking upon her with a faux disapproving look. “You had _one_ job.”

“What, you mean aside from closing off the _entire floor_?” Lexa asks, blinking.

Clarke groans, pulling Lexa in closer for a brief kiss. “Smugness looks hot on you,” she says. “But I did tell you about that thing…”

“Oh,” Lexa says, remembering; when she shifts her eyes over at Anya and Raven, she finds them making out against the refrigerator. _Christ._ “I don’t think it’s possible to take Anya out of this room at this rate.”

Clarke nips at her earlobe. “ _Do_ something.” A shiver runs through Lexa at the feel of Clarke’s lips on her neck, and Lexa grips Clarke’s hip and pulls her closer, hand slipping into the back pocket of Clarke’s jeans. “ _Not_ to me.”

“Later, maybe?”

“ _Maybe_. Don’t get too drunk with the boys.”

Lexa rolls her eyes. “Why do I have to get the boys?”

“Because Octavia and Fox are friends with Raven and I,” says Clarke. “Didn’t I tell you about—”

“I was kidding,” says Lexa, kissing the tip of Clarke’s nose. “And hey, we agreed – _no strippers._ ”

“We agreed on not _hiring_ strippers, but what if we had a stripper- _friend_ —”

Lexa narrows her eyes at Clarke, tilting her chin up with two fingers. “You _have_ a stripper-friend?”

“Maybe I _am_ the stripper-friend?”

“ _Hey_.” Lexa plants a quick one on Clarke, and Clarke hangs on, nibbling at Lexa’s lower lip. “This stripper-friend is _mine._ ”

“Smug _and_ possessive.”

“What can I say? You make a monster out of me, Griffin.”

There’s a knock at the door and Clarke pushes Lexa away with a laugh. Somewhere near the fridge, something metal falls to the floor, and when Lexa turns her head she sees Raven and Anya laughing, arms still around each other, their shoulders shaking.

“I should get that,” says Clarke, brushing past Lexa and heading for the door. There’s brief yelling as the door opens – it’s Lincoln, followed by a handful of other friends whom Lexa has never met until tonight. Lincoln nods at Lexa in recognition before leading the others to the living room.

Lexa watches from a distance as Clarke entertains her friends. She is soon joined by Raven, then Anya right beside her. They’re talking animatedly – _they know each other_ – and Lexa feels acutely out of place as their excited voices start filling the room. It takes a couple of moments before Clarke notices her standing to the side, and with a small _Oh_ she pulls her in closer by the elbow and introduces her as, “My girlfriend, Lexa.”

A chorus of friendly murmurs as Clarke introduces them in turn, one by one – there’s Bellamy and Octavia from the bar, and Jasper and Miller and Fox. Lexa loses track of their names for the first few hours, but Clarke patiently keeps whispering their names at her anyway to remind her. It starts a burgeoning shiver in Lexa’s gut that progresses steadily through the night.

*

Sometime midway through, Clarke drunkenly pushes Lexa and Anya into one of the penthouse rooms, along with the boys, for an undisclosed activity that Anya decides she does not want to prod into further.

“Let the girls catch up,” says Anya, starting a round of tequila. Bellamy lets out a low whistle, settling with Jasper and Miller on one of the beds, as Anya and Lexa occupy the other. Lincoln remains by the door, his arms crossed. Lexa leans against the headboard, her legs stretched out, as Anya sits cross-legged beside her, facing the other bed as she pours the first three shots.

“Okay then,” Anya begins, a hint of a slur already on her tongue. “Who wants to go first?”

*

Anya passes the drinks quickly, and soon Bellamy’s stories are reduced to incoherent drunk giggling that eventually devolves into a snore. Jasper nods off with Miller’s body thrown across him haphazardly. Even Lincoln is now seated on the floor, eyes closed, head against the wall.

After a while, Lexa finally asks: “Do you think the girls are done outside?” She can feel the buzz wrapping around her brain, but she hopes she’s not too far gone. Anya’s now seated beside her, both their backs against the headboard, a fresh shot glass in her hand.

“Not sure,” says Anya, eyeing the salt on Lexa’s wrist. “Shot off you?”

Lexa grins, shoving her away weakly. “ _Fuck_ off,” she says, laughing lightly. Still, Anya leans closer, licking the salt off Lexa’s skin and knocking back the shot. The gesture takes no more than a minute, yet Lexa feels unusually scalded. She hears Anya hiss as she takes the lemon between her teeth, and when she faces Lexa, there’s a surreal blush on her cheeks.

“ _Sorry,_ ” Anya offers, but the way she smirks at Lexa says otherwise. Lexa licks her lips, reaching past Anya for the tequila bottle on the side table, her arm brushing against her slowly. _Christ, everything’s just. So. Slow._ “Your turn?”

Lexa just nods, swallowing hard, steadying her hands as she lines up the shot. Anya leans back, hiking her shirt up. “What the fuck are you doing?” Lexa whispers, holding her shot glass between two fingers.

“You’re doing this body shot properly.”

“You took it off my _wrist._ ”

“Then we’ll do it _over_.”

“That is not—that is not the point.”

Anya laughs, spilling the salt, lining her hip. “The point is—you have tequila in your hand,” she says. “And I have salt _right here._ ”

Lexa feels her mouth go dry. _God we are so drunk,_ she thinks. And then: _Am I drunk enough for this?_ “Jesus, _fuck –_ all right, all right. Hold this.” Anya takes the glass with one hand and helps Lexa with her hair with the other, and _Christ._ Anya’s skin smells like lime and sweat and residual cigarette smoke, and _damn. And here I thought we stopped smoking._

Lexa leans in, licking tentatively and gathering just enough salt at the tip of her tongue, but then Anya sighs and arches into her with a soft _Shit;_ the sound prompts Lexa to look up at her, catching Anya’s eye just as the drink spills over her stomach.

“ _Fuck,_ ” says Lexa, moving up and unthinkingly swooping down, sucking the tequila off the skin. Anya hisses, and Lexa pulls back harshly, coming to her senses. _The fuck is this._ She looks at Anya again, now lying against the pillows, eyes half-lidded.

“You had _one_ job,” Lexa murmurs lowly.

Anya smirks. “Your hands were shaky.”

Lexa reaches over for the shot glass and downs whatever’s left, before finding that they’ve run out of lemons. Her throat burns; there are a handful of reasons she isn’t much of a tequila fan, outside of the “interactivity” so often associated with it, and this burn is certainly among them. Lexa blinks, reaching for the salt a second time and grabbing Anya’s wrist.

“One more?” Anya drawls, rearranging herself on the bed, legs brushing against Lexa.

“Shut up.”

Anya hands her the open bottle and smirks. Lexa lifts Anya’s wrist to her mouth, slowly, and Anya fucking _moans_ at first swipe _,_ her eyes fluttering closed. _Damn,_ Lexa thinks; she doesn’t even realize she’s looking right at her. The sound disappears into a laugh, and when Lexa tries to turn away, Anya opens her hand and cups Lexa’s cheek, thumb grazing Lexa’s jawline.

Lexa turns to the bottle and takes a swig, though the burn this time is no comparison to Anya’s hot touch.

“Relax,” says Anya, voice hoarse. “It’s just tequila.”

_Of course it is._ “God, how drunk are you?” Lexa hisses, eyes feeling heavy.

There’s a small sigh that Lexa almost misses, had she not been paying attention. “Stay and find out,” she hears Anya say, and Lexa nearly falls off the edge of the bed as she sees Anya’s hand disappear into the waistband of her pants.

“What the _fuck_ ,” says Lexa, pushing herself off the bed and heading for the door. Behind her, Anya gasps and laughs, the rustling of sheets punctuated with a small moan. It stops Lexa on her tracks, hand already on the knob, knees wobbly.

“Come on, _Lex_ ,” Anya calls from the bed, and _Christ,_ _really?_ Lexa tries to stop herself from looking over her shoulder, only to fail spectacularly. “They’re just _bodies,_ ” says Anya again, and Lexa has to brace a hand against the door.

She meets Anya’s eye in the low light; holds it for a moment or two, before breaking the contact and letting her eyes wander elsewhere – lower, to where her shadows are moving in a languid rhythm that Lexa wishes she does not recognize; then back up, just in time to see Anya biting down.

_Fuck,_ Lexa just thinks, stumbling out into the living room, finally. _Where the fuck is Clarke?_

*

There’s music playing – she assumes Clarke has plugged in her phone to the speakers, somewhere – but the couches in the living room are empty, so Lexa assumes they moved the party to the balcony. She squints at the all-too-bright lights, head still heavy from earlier. _Shit._ Lexa presses the heel of her palm against her forehead as she carefully makes her way past the couches.

Lexa sees Raven first, curled up in one of the outdoor sofas, Octavia and Fox huddled close to her. They’re all clad in robes, and _oh,_ Lexa thinks, piecing the whole thing together.

“Hey stranger.” Clarke’s hoarse voice comes to her in the dark, and Lexa turns her head slowly toward the outdoor tub at the far corner of the balcony. It overlooks the rest of the city, and in the low light Lexa can see Clarke in her suit, the water bubbling just below her breasts.

_Holy fuck._ “Hey,” Lexa manages after a long moment of staring. “How’s the water?”

“Water’s fine,” says Clarke, lifting herself up to the edge of the tub, showing Lexa the rest of her. Lexa swallows hard at the sight of Clarke’s legs. “Could be _warmer._ ”

Lexa groans softly as she walks over, toying with the waistband of her slacks. A night of drinking has left but a few buttons still done on Lexa’s shirt, and when she reaches Clarke, she makes quick work of them with her wet hands.

“I _told_ you not to get too drunk,” says Clarke, kissing the spaces of Lexa’s skin that she uncovers, slowly. “You can’t even unbutton your own shirt.”

“Anya’s a fast drinker,” Lexa just says, pushing her out of her head the same way that she shrugs out of her shirt. Clarke pushes her slacks down her hips, and Lexa sighs, bending lower to kiss Clarke. She kicks her pants off and dips into the water, underwear be damned. _They’re ruined either way,_ she thinks dimly, as Clarke leads them into the water, her hands carrying Lexa. _This Clarke isn’t drunk._

“What happened?” Lexa asks between kisses as Clarke climbs onto her lap, their thighs sliding over each other in the water. “You’re not drunk?”

“I own a bar,” says Clarke, licking down Lexa’s neck. “I manage pretty well.”

“ _Ah_ ,” says Lexa, the sound little else than a sigh. Clarke scratches at Lexa’s collarbone lightly under the water, and the sigh that escapes Lexa’s mouth morphs into a gasp. “I am at a disadvantage then.”

“Depends how you’re looking at it.”

Lexa tries to keep her grip steady around Clarke’s waist, but her hands keep slipping as Clarke begins a steady grind against her. “ _Clarke._ ”

“You know,” says Clarke, lazily sucking an earlobe into her mouth – the warmth of it a shocking contrast to the cool air. Lexa shivers under her tongue, and Clarke lets out a low laugh; pressed so closely together like this, Lexa can feel the sound vibrating from under Clarke’s chest. “If we’re quiet enough—”

“Your friends are fucking _sleeping_ over there.”

“You didn’t see how much they have had to drink.”

_God._ Lexa bites down on her lip. “You’re impossible.”

“And I miss you,” says Clarke kissing Lexa before lifting herself back on the edge of the tub again, opening her legs. “Come here and touch me.”

Lexa blinks. _Holy fuck._ She braces her hands against Clarke’s thighs and lowers her lips to Clarke’s navel. Clarke arches into her, the water splashing around them as they struggle to tug at her bikini, fingertips scrambling together as Clarke lifts her hips.

“ _Please._ ”

Lexa does not understand how she’s the one on her knees in this tub and yet she’s _not_ the one who’s begging.

“Yes, Clarke?” she whispers, licking lower. “What do you want?”

Lexa feels Clarke running her fingers into her hair and _tugging._ “You,” she gasps, and Lexa finds herself smiling against her skin. “Everywhere. Just _you._ ”

*

Clarke comes twice –fist in her mouth, legs around Lexa’s shoulders, hips grinding against Lexa’s tongue and fingers. With the night breeze cool against her back, Lexa feels her knees shake and chafe underwater, her skin tender against the bottom of the tub.

Clarke shivers and writhes, shivers and writhes; trying her damnedest not to make a sound.

*

They’re huddled on the living room couch, sometime later, when Lexa sees Raven get up from the balcony to tiptoe into the bedroom, and Lexa immediately thinks: _Anya._ Clarke adjusts herself in Lexa’s arms, huddling closer against her, face buried into the crook of her neck.

“Was that Raven?” Clarke whispers.

Lexa nods. “Yeah, I think she went to bed.”

“But where’s Anya?”

“I guess Raven knows.”

Clarke giggles sleepily into Lexa’s shoulder, breath warm and ticklish. “They’re totally doing it, aren’t they?”

“We are _not_ thinking of our best friends fucking right now, are we?”

Clarke laughs again, the sound rough against Lexa’s throat. “I’m just thinking about _fucking_ – in general.”

Lexa groans. “Weren’t we just--?”

“Are you—is that a complaint?”

“Not a complaint – a _plea_.”

“Aww,” Clarke murmurs, turning to her side and lifting her head to plant a couple of kisses along Lexa’s jaw. “Is the commander tired of being on her knees all night tonight?”

“ _Clarke_.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Clarke sighs, planting a final kiss at the hollow of Lexa’s neck. “This has been an interesting few days, no?”

Lexa stares at the ceiling, her hand ghosting over Clarke’s bare shoulder, lazily drawing patterns. “Yeah,” she just says. “They sure have been.”

“You ready?”

Lexa blinks. She tries not to think of Anya, earlier – the low light, the salt on her skin, the sound of her half-moan, half-laugh. _No._ She tightens her hold around Clarke’s shoulder, and Clarke sighs happily into her.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asks Lexa, tone careful.

“It means this is _Anya_ getting married – and I know what she means to you,” says Clarke, and Lexa tries not to tense in her arms all too obviously. “I mean -- if it’s anything like Raven and I –”

Lexa feels herself uncoiling. _Is it?_ She exhales, low and long. “I am ready,” says Lexa. “Are _you_?”

“I am falling apart,” Clarke says, her voice breaking. She clears her throat and tries to disguise the sound in a soft laugh. “I’m nervous as fuck.”

“Bet you’d rock your dress,” says Lexa, holding her close. She can feel Clarke’s heart thrumming – she wasn’t kidding about the nerves. “Bet you’d rock it so hard I’d want to get you out of it, as soon as.”

“Whatever happened to your _plea_?” asks Clarke, tone teasing.

Lexa laughs, kissing Clarke’s forehead. “I’m not opposed to _gentle._ ”

“Hmm, you’re not?”

“Nope.”

“Okay then,” says Clarke, nudging Lexa to her back and throwing a leg astride her. “I’m awake anyway.” Lexa lifts herself up to her elbows, looking up at Clarke. “Don’t worry – we’ll go easy on your _knees._ ”

Lexa smirks. “Well, aren’t you a keeper?”

Clarke nips at her collarbone, her hair falling over Lexa’s chest, ticklish. “And don’t I _know_ it.”

*

The ceremony finishes just in time for dusk. Lexa thinks the whole setup’s a bit too cheesy for her liking, but she squints at the fading light anyway, unable to take her eyes off Anya and Raven kissing, silhouetted by the slowly setting sun.

_Fuck,_ she just thinks, feeling Clarke’s hand tighten around hers, as the small crowd erupts into applause and cheers; just like that, Lexa starts feeling the sting and blur start from the corner of her eyes.

“Are you seeing this?” Clarke whispers right beside her, lifting Lexa’s knuckles to her lips and cuddling closer to her.

“Yeah.” The smallest sniffle betrays her, and Clarke turns to her with a light laugh. “Don’t,” Lexa warns, pouting.

But the way Clarke laughs – all too soft, all too tender – shifts something in Lexa’s chest, and instead of flinching, she finds herself leaning in when Clarke puts her palm gently on her cheek, thumb grazing her cheekbone. “You okay?”

Lexa nods, swallowing. “Someday, yeah?” she says, nodding over to Anya and Raven, who still haven’t stopped kissing. “You and me?”

Clarke narrows her eyes at her in mock-suspiciousness. “Did you just ask me to marry you?”

“Just a low-key suggestion – _for now,_ ” Lexa says. “I mean. I don’t even have a ring on me. I mean – I was carrying two, earlier, but obviously they had been set aside for another occasion altogether.”

“ _Pfft,_ ” says Clarke, rolling her eyes. “Rings are overrated.” And then, leaning in closer to whisper in Lexa’s ear: “You have all night to get _creative_.”

_Oh._ “Really?” asks Lexa, lifting a brow; suddenly, the air’s a bit too thick for proper breathing. “Because honestly, this dress is a tad bit inspiring.”

“You should check for real inspiration _underneath._ ”

“ _Clarke._ ”

Clarke blinks, batting her eyelashes innocently. “What?”

“We still have—” Lexa pauses, glancing at her watch. “At least three more hours before calling it a night. Reception, toast and all.”

“So?” Clarke smiles, moving closer and pressing up against her _with purpose_. “What’s three more hours?”

“Approximately _two hundred_ minutes.”

“Math genius.”

“ _Impatient_ math genius,” says Lexa, as Clarke leans in for a kiss. “God, you’re going to be a handful, aren’t you?”

“What? _Me?_ ” Clarke says, pulling away slowly and following the crowd. “I’m saving myself for _marriage._ ”

Lexa stares at Clarke as she joins the cheering throng, finding space between Bellamy and Octavia and hooking her arms into theirs as they walk toward the dinner venue. _Jesus Christ,_ Lexa just thinks, shaking her head. _What a girl, that Clarke._

*

 


	5. epilogue: thunderlove

“Did you ever think we’d get this far?”

Lexa glances over at Anya, sitting beside her at the edge of the pool, legs dipped into the water up to the knee; their dress pants are rolled up, and their ties, undone. They’re idly finishing the bottles of champagne in their hands, watching the party crowd thinning as the guests dispersed drunkenly into the night.

“Is this a trick question?” asks Lexa, smiling.

Anya laughs, taking another swig. They stare ahead for a while, watching Raven and Clarke having a rather noisy round of tequila with their college crowd. “A bit too sentimental to be believable?” she asks.

“Oh. Not what I meant. Just – I always thought this was going to be a long haul thing?” Lexa says, looking at her feet in the water. “I mean – I technically inherited you from my father.”

“That I am part of your father’s _estate_ is actually pretty rad, come to think of it.”

“ _Anya._ You know what I mean.”

Anya nods, tapping Lexa’s shoulder with the neck of her bottle to gesture at Clarke – now demonstrating something apparently hilarious with a coin on her forehead. “Your wife’s truly the life of the party,” says Anya.

“Not that yours is bad herself.” At this point, Raven is competing with Clarke in the same coin-moving contest on her face, and everyone – even _Lincoln_ – finds it riotous.

“True,” says Anya, taking one long swig and exhaling right after, releasing the soft sound into the night. Lexa keeps swinging her legs under the water gently, careful not to splash the water. “Listen. About the other night.”

Lexa freezes momentarily at Anya’s segue – she _knows_ they have to talk about that, sooner or later, though she hadn’t expected it to be _this_ soon. “We were drunk.”

“Were we?”

 _Are you fucking kidding me?_ Lexa turns her head, brows furrowed like she’s figuring out if Anya’s joking. Anya just keeps looking at her though, her expression unreadable. “We _were_ drunk, there’s was too much tequila—”

“Remember that time I first said no?” Anya interrupts. Truth be told, Lexa doesn’t really want to remember that – she’d been too young; she’d been too eager. It was embarrassing. “You do, don’t you?”

“Anya.”

“Fine,” says Anya, finishing her bottle off and putting it aside. _God – is she drunk now?_ Lexa wonders. “You remember the first time _you_ said no?”

Lexa remembers that, too – but she isn’t too sure now’s the most appropriate time to resurface old feelings. “What’s your point, Anya?”

“I’m just saying – we’ve had several points in this relationship where we could have just ended it. Right there.”

“Do you mean to say you wish we had, at any of those points?”

“Do you?”

 _Fuck._ Lexa finishes her bottle off in kind, somewhat even tempted to throw the bottle aside. “Of course not. What are you even talking about?”

“I’m saying we’ll never be able to say _yes –_ not anymore. Do you understand?”

“Yes to what, Anya?” Lexa’s mind has begun racing – _what the fuck is going on?_ Across them, Clarke and Raven are beating their fists against the table, cheering Bellamy and Lincoln on, oblivious to _this_ conversation.

“Yes to the rest of _the other night_.”

 _Shit._ Lexa wipes at her face with her hand, trying to rub away the memory of it. _The salt, the skin._

_Christ, Lexa. Stop this._

“I’ll hold out my end of the deal,” says Lexa finally. “If you hold up yours.”

The way Anya laughs – Lexa’s never quite heard it. Like she’s resigned and helpless all the same. “I’d shake on it, but I don’t shake on promises I couldn’t keep.”

“Anya.”

Lexa watches Anya as she pulls herself out of the water, leaving her at the pool edge with an unusually heavy heart, two empty champagne bottles beside her.

 _Well, shit._ Sure, Lexa hasn’t been to too many weddings, and she’d expected herself to be surprised.

Just not like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Make it Gold ends here, though I think with the way we’ve ended it, it’s pretty obvious we’re heading into a same-verse sequel. Any guesses what it would be, though? =) 
> 
> Yeah, I thought so, too.
> 
> That said, again -- thank you for sticking with this. Your support has kept me warm. Thank you. =)


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